Paddling

It strikes me that we will never be great

Like those grey dots separated by nothingness

On a flickering screen brighter towards the center.

The world is a tapestry woven




For each of us, to forever hold

Sacred and watch

And watch

And watch




Watch with these frightened eyes,

Frightened of what, we do not yet know.

Watch through tears running down our cheeks

Arising from the crest of the undertow.




This silk drops from a great height,

Travelling through time

Through dust born by gimlet eyed carriers

As the path leads we know not where



And the ripples scatter like ducks over a pond

Even as we cry and hope and laugh and rage,

We raise a gun, and take aim.

 

saskatchewan_duck_hunting

 

I really like the bleakness of cold mornings when people go hunting. I don’t know why. It seems very arborial and antiquated to me – hunter gatherers of the present.

I don’t have a lot to say about this poem, I wrote it just now, so it’s quite clear, I think. The picture is from somewhere in Canada, I wanted a very cold and foggy one of the lake district but I couldn’t find any. It’s a very cinematic shot, it’s so organic and beautiful, and those are geese curving their wings, not ducks.

The more primeval parts of the lake district make me think of Seigfried and the dragon and it’s all very medieval Germany for some reason. Or is it Saxon? I don’t know.

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3 thoughts on “Paddling

  1. When I hunt with my hawk in the early morning I feel the same way. There’s a time when nature is raw. I believe it starts at sun rise and lasts about 3 hours.
    Nature is on the prowl, the things that hunt are ready to eat, the things that get hunted are on high alert. It’s a tension that you can only feel.

    Liked by 1 person

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