On the death of a daughter
Nowadays often he finds himself down at the river
with fishing rods and home-made lures
that dance as colour-drenched and flamboyant
as an opera diva's earrings
though the gear, and the catch (if any) aren't the point.
He goes because he has to.
Because sometimes a twig floats by,
or a bird jags past,
or a dragonfly balances
on thin air.
And it's ―
he cannot finish what it is.
Yet in this still room
we feel the river move on and on
as if there were comfort
in something pushing forward from its source,
always forward,
light gleaming on its surface instant after instant,
each sudden vision ― leaf, water-beetle, seed-pod ―
a match that is struck against a deep-running dark.
by Emma Neale from The Truth Garden (published July 2012)
Published by Otago University Press.
ISBN 9781877578250
Poem used with the permission of the author.
Find Emma Neale online.
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