Push deep into the mud
Slowly the bank passes, in the distance
a cottage, smoke sinking out of its crooked chimney,
beside the bowing porch, an old willow –
spilt by lightning from last years deluge
when thoughts caused rivulets
to crack habits
that were once a surge.
Waves freeze upon the page
become so slow eyes
cannot see them crash.
The water scolds
whenever it licks
mud rather than grass
Several ducks gather around a group of rocks,
swap tales, their beaks working
like mouths full of clothes pegs.
Above, clouds chase the seasons
until the coming of Ragnarok
will publish these efforts.
The end in sight is the sea, land
only holds us for so long
then sets us free.