The River
I can hear the slow
thump and thrash
of a ship's propeller
churning the dark and see
the sheer black wall
of a hull slide by,
gathering the river in
like a skirt,
then releasing a train
of wakes to run
up banks and rock
the calm.
Solitary fishermen sit quietly
in private vigils
along the river's length.
All night they stare
into an absolving still
and move between
a mind's floating absence
and the tip of a rod
plumbed to depths
beyond human.
After the ship has passed
they wait
for the river to heal
and mend the lesions
in a tactile language.
Down river
a floodlit smoke stack
rises like a spire
out of the ruins of a factory.
High above,
a great wheeling dome
of seagulls fleck
a charcoal sky
and smear noise across
a vaulted quiet.
A lifetime on I hear
the discordant hymn,
feel the menace
of something moving shapeless
below the reach of words
and wait for the river
to heal.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2022
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