Ghosting they call this
when there is just breeze enough to fill the sail
and not a puff more
and the boats move silently
like spirits over the water, like phantoms drifting
between the far banks.
Alongside, unseen, who knows?, perhaps are ghosts
of some who drowned here by ill chance, others who drowned
to end their hurt.
For now might be just the time for them
and tide, this brimming evening lull
and the half light
when there is just breeze enough
to fill the sail and not a puff more.
Ghosting they call this.