trout [ 6 ]
Robert James Berry
  The Craft

A thought is forming
It bleeds a pagan syllable
one word of ancient blood
                                            onto the page

At evening a blue haze pencils the horizon
Time closes over creation
broad burnished hands

The thought has grown
It is
a candle like morning
The wick is burning

When it is dark
When fog settles
And the thought is
A graven image to kneel at
Profuse soundless

Then it shall have children
They shall haul fishlike onto land

I am thinking of them

  © 1999

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