In Your Wake

Reed banks, and an old boat's
faint indentation, run aground, stuck
in the shallow mud lining the bright expanse.

Overhead the shouts of river birds, high
and lonesome on the thin wind, grey clouds
sailing across till inland they reach

the foothills, green and foggy, far removed
from the light failing on the cold water
and nothing of any importance, not

even a first-class failure. Just
the slow swish as hour follows hour and the
careless water lapping the prow, urgelessly,

aimlessly... What I thought a tidal wave
of emotion nothing but another ship's
backwash that has passed, too long, away.