Tuesday, 7 October 2014

Fish with my son

My son, and I, dived for that witch changed into a fish
to escape the meanderings we shared as we sat beside
the river and tried to connectbut my son’s words are not
my words, not framed in my picture of history and the witch,
bloated as she was with understanding, did not wish to let 
us understand each other. She fled the scene of that idyllic afternoon
when we stopped by the river’s bank, cast words with fishing lines
and found the snags and tangles too much: The fish did not bite

so we two took up the chase instead for that shimmer of salmon gold,
went after the tail, fin and the legend that a salmon caught would
make the two of us wise enough be back again at that moment when
my son’s eyes looked up at me and I smiled, his smell still bright
as sunshine and my hand had only ever caressed him for I had
not said nor had we shared the least moment of difficulty.

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