There is such joy in skimming stones.
Even in the searching and gathering; seeking rounded narrow discs.
You need a calm moon, with the tide as peaceful as a millpond.
Water as calm and misty as the eyes of a sated lover.
Thigh-deep, launching stones as fisherfolk cast their nets.
Each stone, caressed between fingers for the flattest edge.
By feel of fingertips: no need for eyes.
As with many pleasurable acts, rhythm and timing are paramount-
Limbs arching, communing with the rise and fall of the tide.
All an instinctive feeling.
The release? Pure congress between stone and sea
As increasing friction heightens touch drawn out until the final coming-
A quivering. The deepest ripple.
Then all is falling. Settling. Submergence.
Long after turning away from the waters there is the pleasurable ache.
Joints that have willingly taken a toll,
To create joyful moments that linger on.
© Tom Tide 2016