Sunday Walk
Flashing rainbow blue, the trout, darting,
breaking the darkling bank;
to the lolling depths: where no sunlight ever goes.
Haunched parental pointing finger
guiding
wrapping round that eager child,
who seeing only glinting light,
suspects no fish.
Strange the urge to magic then,
as in the super-natural
glimpsing game of seen unseens,
that later are rememberings.
For even now we doubt. Even as I know,
the trout is in the river beyond our eyes.
An angel now would be more real.
For we have walked this path before,
swishing grass with sapling sticks,
and split the world with tales tall.
Yet never in our glancing,
have we yet caught hide
of angled prize chancing into open sight.
Though we have not looked.
As we look now.
Too busy with our company to watch for hints,
from that world, from which we are removed.
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