He sits on a rock in a rushing river,
Words flow by glinting
In a muted light
From then to now
In froth around the sitting-stone
And on down stream
In wavelets round the bend
To forever.
He thinks salmon are poems
Fighting up the current
From the future
With his net hand-knotted
And too full of holes,
He crouches poised
As if to land a good one.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteCharles,
ReplyDeleteThis is beautiful, full of a place.
I especially like the startling idea that "he thinks salmon are poems fighting up the current from the future."
Now that I think of it, of course they are.
Maria
Thank-you, Maria!
Delete