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.