Vespers

They are like cardinals, those closed
umbrellas of the lido, conducting
a silent evensong.

Smudged by sunset’s inks,
their prayers rise, floating upwards
on pink post-it notes.

Intent on the eternity before them,
they do not see the small boy
poised to dive.

Head bowed, knees bent,
his arms are raised out behind him
in reverse supplication.

The boy’s prayer from out of the depths:
a pearl for the Badajao:
people of the sea.

All are silhouetted against
the same dusk, but inhabit
different worlds.