I gradually draw the shape of a large bream
out of the lake´s dark depths
into the shallows beside the jetty.
It drifts among the stems,
sifts the soft silt of past generations
of water plants for nourishment,
sucks and blows yellow ochre clouds
and leaves these signs behind;
pock marks in the mud, lines
where its tail has dragged.
Mike, the heart of the poem. I wonder if what is before should be drawn in
fewer lines.
Smiles.
Gary
Writer's Hood, the best poetry on the web, at http://www.writershood.com/
Poets for Peace.... ˇPoemas sí, balas no!
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