A dark shadow flies towards me –
too fast, too much intent
for another clump of seaweed.
Passing close, the ray pays me no heed,
as it soars below, rippling as it sweeps past.
I follow clumsily, hopelessly slow,
in this element my ancestors left behind.
The ray turns and passes again,
almost touching me now,
I feel the flow of its motion.
And again I follow,
but again am left behind,
looking after it,
aching with jealousy
for its beauty and grace,
its perfect, effortless, belonging.
Out of the Cave’s Mogo poems reminded me of this one, which I wrote a couple of summers ago about swimming with (or trying to swim with) a huge ray at South Durras, which is not far from Mogo.