The River and the Fisherman
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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