Walking the other sunny afternoon
along the Frankland Sands
I heard a fish jump in shallows.
The sound drew me, and then it drew the fish,
small and sleek and insouciant, translucent as the water,
which was so shallow and so tannin-clear
I could make out easing along the lakebed beneath
the shadow of the fish.
That, I thought,
following the shape the sun drew of the fish,
until I lost it,
is where the sun doesn’t make it to earth.
And walking on,
my shape dark beside me on the sand,
my shadow proves that I am real.
But for that I might not know I was here at all.
I might be just a school of thoughts,
sleek and ethereal as the trout,
the swimming mind of the afternoon.
—Monday, 28 November 2005