Friday, August 28, 2015

Old man, bicycle and rod

An old man pushing his bicycle
wedges time and space
in the page margin between
rail tracks and fence.
The thin wire lines holding back
the marching of the trees,
property of the forestry department.
He transects the chevron shadows                                                                                    
Feet squish in puddles of stillness.
The fishing rod is silent and strapped up,
comfortable with its length
and the horizontal ride.

He sees no-one. The lined face whistles
as it catches the breeze,
revelling in the tingle.
The wet stain on the trouser bottom,
an imprint of the river and its dark quiet water.
A sparrow flutters and a red robin hops about. He stops,
slowly turning his head to look around. What are
his thoughts? He is in no hurry.                                                                       
The moment, alive in the thoughts, ripples out …

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