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An  alabaster jar

Amongst the discard

Embedded in the mud.

The fisherman

Well trained in the ancient art of picary

Catches a halibut

In the morn

It is the noon. The river is all but gone.

Dry as a bone. A bona fide state for a river under the baking sun.

The harlequin fish now ARE all dead.

The cavities once called a river

Now await the rain for life to return in its core.

Still the alabaster jar

Among the discard- waiting to be fished out.

Next to the last alive pair of toads in amplexus.

 

Oh the river

The supreme life giver. Calls for Anuket!

Times are desperate.

The sun is hot. The rain won’t fall.

Amethyst stones on its cracked banks

Glitter and reflect its sad facade.

The fisherman sits and grieves for the dry river

His eyes transfixed in the limestone.

Alas his halibut is still fresh

In the bucket. He reaches out and fishes out the alabaster jar.

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