Eve Jackson
The Yar
By late afternoon
I have come to listen to water
and birds, feel the wind at my skin,
watch the truth of the river
as it carries teals seaward.
Low tide
has no time for the sluggish ambivalence
that slops between reeds
as murky water, swells sludge
into heaps.
A bitter wind
scatters the call of gathering geese,
lifts the milfoil at my feet,
bending mallow until it cracks,
snapping terns into a slurry of sky.
The Yar
knowing its way between clusters of rock,
defining itself by the light it carries,
endlessly true to its constant source
and always my place of reflection.
Page(s) 54
magazine list
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