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Below my house beyond the hill
on this clouded day I walk
to a skiff at rest in the lake
a hull of weathered wooden boards
all grey and black and green set
one to another in a way to form a hull
to hold me as I sit oars grasped
to row to an island of pines
there above the shore I came across
one tree laid upon another
a line of black moving in and out
of the lower that rests on a thick
bed of duff while others stand
straight up like arrows aimed
majestic in coarse coats
a triangular man sits near the shore
he is always there when I am here
a dog in heat at his feet
never does he offer any of his catch
but sometimes he yells up to me
'there is nothing there' for me to hear
I am not a fisherman and where I am
a cold stream flows north to south
where stands a blind man with rod
in hand looking towards me
father, father I yell as he
turns toward the north
copyright 2008
Walter
Durk |
