‘The man’s a wit or witless’
their eyes signalling as they
search my face for explanation
or perhaps another way

of meaning. None’s forthcoming.
‘It must be a clear day,’
I insist.’ Not in the morning –
the sun gets in the way.

‘Nor when the sea is misty’
(then all colour drains to grey)
‘but two or three times a season
there’ll be that special day,

a day of light and brightness…’
but they’ve already moved away:
‘The man is a real nutcase –
it must be ten thousand k.

plus there’s the curving of the earth…’
so as they decline to stay
again I ponder sadly,
looking down into the bay

that adults get too literal
they’ve all lost their sense of play
but not me and small children –
we see Chile anyway.