He picks up a twig,
a thin knobbly wand
and drops it in,
watches it turn,
twist like the hour-hand
on a clock around the bend.
Now a stone,
a grey sphere
plopped into the mix,
as a magnet
sticks to the river’s tongue
and won’t budge.
He calls me over,
‘can you see our faces?’
The melting mirror
gurgles along,
doesn’t know
we are there.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
He picks up a twig,
a thin knobbly wand
and drops it in,
watches it turn,
twist like the hour-hand
on a clock around the bend.
Now a stone,
a grey sphere
plopped into the mix,
as a magnet
sticks to the river’s tongue
and won’t budge.
He calls me over,
‘can you see our faces?’
The melting mirror
gurgles along,
doesn’t know
we are there.
Written: February and March 2014.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time for a university class - a sort of follow-up to older piece 'Vein.'
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