A silken lake, rocks golden with algae under the sun.
Near shore their suddenly creased greyness flusters
the surface to a crinkly sparkle.
Squinting, I look to either side, a habit born in youth
— who now will pause to look at these old folds? —
My towel shrugs to the dock-boards, one foot reaches down
to the stepping stone
for a quick slide into water.
My body feels as fluid as the loon’s grace looks
as she dives from her carefully kept distance.
Alone, her call reverberates. The air, for a moment, thickens
as she waits.
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...
