mwotw

By silent speculations of the oar,
(I row a gainless line, just as before
the hardness of the stone returns the strike.
The waters of my passing run alike,
unvaried to the constance of my prow.)
I seek among the ice flows. He is now
too near! A quarry fleeting from my sight
advances with the swiftness of the night.

But Winter’s dearth inspires a hunger mad,
(Oh startled loon, you dove but soon were glad
I’d driven sullen silvers to your beak
in frenzied schooling flight) among the weak
whom memories of the hunt alone sustain
upon the road of death. For all my pain,
I fear that I may never catch you. Still,
I know that I have touched you with my will.

27 November, 2001