Post by glen on Jan 13, 2009 15:23:07 GMT -6
I drop my pole and tackle box, my mind drawn to
That favorite place I have
To catch the unwary rainbow or perhaps a brown.
The whitewater above and below offers no refuge for these lunkers
Or even for me.
But this place, ah, it offers solace and a final arena for trout.
And yet I look again.
This familiar grotto is strangely foreboding
Its silent water turned dark, the frothy foam turning from white to ash to thick scum.
It swirls, inviting, silently turning in a microcosm
A mirrored Milky Way galaxy
Diminishing, crawling, shrinking
“Things fall apart: the Centre cannot hold.”
“Death,” it whispers, “Is the natural order of things.”
I stare at the dark water, and for a moment, see myself.
I pull away and look at the trees, the rapids, the sky.
I have faced something, and it has faced me.
But I would much rather catch a fish.
And turn to go.
It is not until I have taken many paces
That I realize my fishing rod
Lies abandoned, forgotten, beside the pool.
That favorite place I have
To catch the unwary rainbow or perhaps a brown.
The whitewater above and below offers no refuge for these lunkers
Or even for me.
But this place, ah, it offers solace and a final arena for trout.
And yet I look again.
This familiar grotto is strangely foreboding
Its silent water turned dark, the frothy foam turning from white to ash to thick scum.
It swirls, inviting, silently turning in a microcosm
A mirrored Milky Way galaxy
Diminishing, crawling, shrinking
“Things fall apart: the Centre cannot hold.”
“Death,” it whispers, “Is the natural order of things.”
I stare at the dark water, and for a moment, see myself.
I pull away and look at the trees, the rapids, the sky.
I have faced something, and it has faced me.
But I would much rather catch a fish.
And turn to go.
It is not until I have taken many paces
That I realize my fishing rod
Lies abandoned, forgotten, beside the pool.