the brook

 

— thirsty the mind plays tricks — take sun-screen and a hat

and polarized lenses if handy — into a blinding sun

 

where unsteady air rising off heated sand can stir the image

 

of an undulating stillness to a tentative mirage — to see

 

 

 

in the refraction a reflection bent by fluid air blurred

in the shimmering of convection off the surface

 

seduce the self-deceiving eyes knowing it false — to anything

 

familiar — comfort of an absurdity — potentially dangerous

 

 

 

— ignoring signs — distracted by the fascination of a dance shining

a brook dappled by agitated scrub rippling a crooked trickle

 

in the hypnosis of a silence on the studied distance —

 

 

 

attempting to approach — silt sift a still sand — or only

 

a shadow passing overhead — and facets of bedded stones

 

fixed to the motion of illusion they are there dissolve

Roger Desy

Barnwood poetry magazine