How do I feel time?
Standing on the bridge and looking down into the water,
Variable tides and scatterings of folk doing things… Throwing nets, casting lines, searching for bait, walking canines, rambling on rocks, resting in the shade.
They were always swimming upstream, these skinny fish with long pointed noses. Silver bodies reflecting sunlight.
Cracks and pops sound out as the tide rushes out, but those silver bodies have gone.
Were they only here for a season? Did someone come and scoop them all up?
What else haven’t I noticed the disappearance or appearance of?
Observer.
When will I get off the bridge and walk the sand banks, exposed like the bones of this landscape’s body?
Garfish gone
Filed under Poetry
Being with Country 