The last of the shad flies yo-yo in front of me
the dead ones still cling to the side of the house,
gulls, having feasted their fill
have lost interest, and leave them hanging there.
A few fly to my white dressing gown. Another light?
Lighter than what surrounds me,
and surely that is light enough, as the sun
bleaches all subtlety from grasses, shrubs and trees,
muting the sky to a milky blue haze,
a blinding brightness, like the intensity of my life,
blotting out nuance and the usual considerations.
I blurt out the truth of the moment — no shade
covering the fierceness I need to keep on.
Only the breaking breeze gives warning
of the water's colour piercing the flat grey-green
to the golden rocks below and their shadows, where minnows
dart around the crab's slow drift.
Look sharp to the breeze.
YOU ARE READING
The Risks of Remembrance
PoetryIn Ann's poetry, images become language; a language that directly grips the observer/reader. We come to know by the word and by the image. Like Plato’s cave we get glimpses of light among the shadows. –Jane Burns, painter/printmaker Ann Elizabeth C...
