Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Idyll Of A Bootmaker Poet

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.


  1. This comment has been removed by the author.

  2. Charles,

    This 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.