The tables and benches are wet.
Barges on the Rhine low their mourning.
Water stands high after the rains.
On the opposite bank, the sharp
chimneys of the steelworks entertain us
with reflected-light swordplay. As far
as we can see the meadows are empty,
bushels of grass on mounds above the alluvium.
We lift our glasses. A solitary canoe
is berthing at the jetty.
I don’t have fibromyalgia, you say.
I have cancer. And the silence changes
colour and our eyes won’t meet.
Barges on the Rhine low their mourning.
Water stands high after the rains.
On the opposite bank, the sharp
chimneys of the steelworks entertain us
with reflected-light swordplay. As far
as we can see the meadows are empty,
bushels of grass on mounds above the alluvium.
We lift our glasses. A solitary canoe
is berthing at the jetty.
I don’t have fibromyalgia, you say.
I have cancer. And the silence changes
colour and our eyes won’t meet.
Photo used under Public Domain.
