Poetry

It’s all come down to me sitting under a tree
on a river bank
on a sunny morning.
It’s an inconsequential event
that won’t go down in history.

William Blake saw an angel
sitting in a tree. Blondin crossed Niagara
on a cable. And Maria Taglioni
for a Russian highwayman
danced on a panther’s skin spread over the snow
in 1855.

Here where the dark-sourced stream brims up,
Reflecting daylight, making sound
In its stepped fall from cup to cup

each beast tells his own story
this is my story to you
I have loved you seventeen years
and both of us are not young any more
we live in another country