He is the milky blue of the difficult skies
under which he was born.
He is a speedboat, shoving swiftly through shuddering waters,
gaze fixed forwards, racing from the present.
He is granite, impermeable, immovable,
yet may be shaped by the gentlest lapping waters
over patient periods of time.
He is a great solitary oak, planted,
rooted to the earth, firm in the onslaught of the wind.
He is dusk, haunting the shadows,
mysterious, moody,
impossible to grasp.
He is Japan, flaunting the western trappings of confidence
part-shunning, part-proud of the underlying east
that refuses to stay silent.
He is the grumblings of the bass guitar
shunning the frivolous limelight
in deliberate favour of the rhythmic understatement.
He is the tide, restlessly sighing,
Ever-elusive and always the same.
He is,
Always.