He’s down there somewhere, browsing the pond floor’s

ghostly weeds, twitching off

their coats of slime in a green cloud.

Even the goggle-eyed fish don’t see him.

But I saw him, whoever he was.

A silhouette of a distant

black-breasted Viking ship

on the water’s mirror, darkening,

whose carved head glistened a thousand years

north of here this morning, but now

hung brooding over his capsized twin,

joined at the water line.

--Then a flash as beak struck down

into shadow beak, and both of him

went draining away dead center

in a hoop of light, rippling out

toward all shores of the pond.

One flattened radio wave

that carried no music, and no news

except that he had been there.


                                           The Rialto #79 (2014) (UK)