Monday, May 7, 2012

Mag 116

All rivers reflect the Shannon;
that old dame who bares swans
like white, scalloped cups.
I sipped her
offering, then jogged
in a chilled morn as thick as gelatin, bursting
through clouds of mote-flies and pockets
of lingering, sinking winter.
Relic walls run avenues of garbled stories to scribes,
disguised as rubble-towers, who guard
the old reservoir.
I made a gift of one of mine,
dropped it, hope-filled, as if I cast
a bottled message, sealed
from the current-voices.
Now when I meet a river
(it dips, I nod
a greeting), I scan its rippled
face for a wink--for a bobbing--for a delivery;
word from the source.
 For Magpie Tales, a first draft.  As always, constructive criticism desired and appreciated.


  1. That was utterly beautiful. Full of gentle serenity.

  2. smiles...this is lovely...and really love that ending on always looking for that nod or wink from the source...well played...

  3. You certainly have spun straw into gold with this one! This is truly beautiful!!

  4. I guess you meant 'bears' swans - as per carries them, not 'bares' as per takes off their feathers? LOL

  5. @Trellissimo
    Yes. Yes I do! Thank you.

    And thank you all for the comments.


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