Tuesday, 29 June 2010

Riverside poem

There are no hawks.
There are neither hulks nor icebergs.
Nothing drops violently

down from the white sky.
The river flows between its banks
as the wind does between

Earth and sky.
Suds on the water's surface
are clouds, clouds, clouds,

erratic and baggy or
tight as bolted cloth.
The sun sets and there is no sun.

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