ISSN 1758-6488
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Four poems Poetry |
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The Jetty
Summer-bleached and swaddling the paddle-boat
and tin canoe, the jetty shoulders, for a moment,
clean right angles, lichen seams heavy as voices
tacking now across water, calling ‘don’t’ or ‘boat’,
it hardly matters to me. The way I scribble
is like the way a squirrel or a cardinal
is fumbling in the thicket to my left:
at least he knows what he’s looking for.
I think I’ve found it when the opposite hill
throws down another version of itself
on the lake’s gloss. Soon the evening
will soak boat and jetty, this very page.
By then, I’ll have slipped inside a fuchsia bud
of wine and spindle tips of light from a porch
over the lake that answers, very nicely, to our own.
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