Visions of Evening

see the old man on the riverbank
grown up with grass gone to seed and aged amber
looking out and over
the river broken free of its banks
strained out in streaks of green and gold
rolling down and on

see the boats, some wood
brightly painted and wheeling
in the gold light failing evening
oars up sailing, spinning
momentarily motionless
in the water flow passage of time

see the old man caught full front
by the setting sun
shirt billowing out around this wiry frame
face deeply furrowed in hat brim shadow
seriously set in silent contemplation
heavy white moustache twitching occasionally

see the swallows skip across the water
like fragile stones
blue and white their bodies bob
cut toward the cut bank, the old man
their wing tips graze the grass
hurry on

see the old man’s bamboo quake
finely finished, an amber rod in the sun
he holds it up against his thigh
a line defined definite in the hazy heat
the air falling in a thousand different images of dusk
each breaking on the water with rippling calm

see the night creep gray and sullen
unbidden from the east
in a mist it moves
cautious, yet certain
of the inevitable darkness
the inevitable return of light

see the old man rise, light as paper
cease his vigil for another night of sleep
another night in a lifetime of nights
and time bends back on itself like a wave
and he is caught full front
by the amber light of recollection