Saturday, 22 August 2015

Fishing with my son:

My son and I dived for that slippery witch changed into a fish
To escape the meanderings we shared as we sat on the bank
Of the moving river and tried to connect — but our words
Are not framed in each other’s history and the silvery witch,
Bloated as she is with misunderstandings, did not wish
To let us understand each other. She fled the scene of that fallen idyll
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 its first chance to caress him and I had

Not stumbled nor had we shared the least moment of generational difficulty.

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