National Poetry Month

Ghost, River, Shiver, Gaze, Wicked, Cold Someone stood by the river, I was glad I wasn’t going to be the only one, I was to come with my grandfather, But he had been unwell. I greeted the man, He only nodded in response, I gazed at him but he seemed oblivious to my scrutiny, He was busy with his net, A cold wave of unease washed through me. As I pushed my boat to the river, Suddenly the man offered me his net, I shook my head, His hand was still insistently stretched toward me, I looked into his eyes and saw a glimmer of kindness, I shivered as I took the net, I silently prayed that the spirits of my ancestors guide me. I thrust my boat further into the river and paddled to the centre, I looked in the direction of the man, He waved at me, I cast the net into the water And noticed a continuous ripple on the surface, I tried to pull out the net and noticed it was heavy, I summoned the strength of the spirits, The catch was sudden and massive, I glanced toward the direction where the stranger had been, He was no longer there, “He wasn’t a wicked ghost after all,” I thought with a smile, April 14, 2025.