fishing the river is for old men,
solitary figures who saw their original sin
and now see darkness closing in
fishing is for old men, who can stand to watch
the leaves pass them by on the soft singing waters
and not wonder where they go, for they know,
it matters not if they make it to the black sea,
tarry a while on a quiet bank, or sink into the silt
fishing is for old men, who dream while awake
whose eyes no longer flutter but squint
in the sun’s naked white journey from shore to shore
when their line becomes taut, they know
now a slow dance, a chat will ensue, not a battle
they once felt compelled to fight, part of the larger war,
raging, raging against the night, for the fish…or
the fisherman, knows when the conversation ends
his line will again be loose, drifting on the currents
bound for the certainty of uncertainty
fishing is for old men
I am haunted by waters