Fishing Weather
The dapple of morning's star bursting
heavy rain of sentimental yarns
tangle boat breaking hope tied
to sharp rock cast and cut,
still cut the placid azure by turns,
and spins delicacy sugars, Fall fair
candy cotton of shake-handed
parallel lines
you drew.
You leave impermanent scars, covered
quick
in honey-milk, dried in canoed boat
bridges, waterway picket planks
bracketed
lily shade in timely falsehoods dawn
by
youthful sunshines left unstated,
unfinished
white elephant: like Chinese
motorways,
like Kosovar airports, we leave many
scaffolds exposed.
Like darkness, light, sunshine and
shadow,
the creeping pall of freedom's
many-flavoured delights
draws over us, fateful as bone-dust
wreckage we run from with all our
worried nostalgias, clatter of
keyboard
and hum of cellular towers to get us
back
to that good past, when weather was
fit
for fishing.
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