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.

6 comments:

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

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

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

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

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

    And thank you all for the comments.

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