Monday, 11 July 2016

The Quiet John

Words hover, rainbow trout
hidden in the river - with soft underbellies,
speckled brown desires - unseen
in the muddy water, gills work
to convert ideas to sentences,
tails flick back and forth to fight
the current of plot, stay still
while the world moves.

Lips pout, wait for fish emerge,
barbel or common catfish, the thought
has hooked the thick lips of consonants
ripe to be cooked in conversation;
verbs found in the murky ground,
amongst the mounds of reeds and grasses –  
form in the sound space behind his teeth,
mingle, as if in a school, dart
to and fro – are lost in the deep nooks
and crannies underneath the bank; wait
for intelligence to find them. On the surface
still eyes - as distant as a fish’s thoughts - stare
back without a hint of confusion, the action
occurs beneath. His words skim across stones
and boulders, slide away as if each smoothed-out letter,
covered in slippery moss, cannot be held
by the shape of his grasping mouth or clamorous mind.

One day he will submerge people
as if to return them to the sea; even the great
fisherman will be pushed beneath
and face the truth of his humanity -
from the ocean we came,
from the ocean we will return.

One day his head will be served
upon a silver platter
like a fish head at the feast,
his words forever lost,
the ocean a distant echo
in the dying spectre of his ears.

No comments:

Post a Comment