Poetry - 27 June 2012

 

(photo art by J.W. Bullard)

Across the wide mouth of water

Sat my beloved ready for me.

My eyes focused on his out-of-focus face

And knew that it was over.

The water rippled a thin oil sheen,

Casting an ill rainbow to the bottom.

I wish, therefore, it must not be real.

My lines, he told me later, consist

Of murky reed pulled from too far.

I am too far gone to reconcile with you,

You who sit across the lake, filled

With prayers that fall below.

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