29 January 2013 // poetry

A poem by Virginia Astley.

I come to you in the evening,
an old pact draws me to your edge
to consider the day.

Across the water night-fishermen cast
and speak of baiting tactics,
voices lapping in the reeds.

Green and silvered barbel
slink under lily pads
twitching their caudal fins,

and the small glubs of carp
suck at the surface.
The rising moon streaks

a slick of rippled light
A river-wind snags the willow,
quivers through the shallows.

I come to you at night,
your margin of mist clinging,
a tangle of weed at my legs,

forgotten silt on my tongue,
your strange colour in my eyes.

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