THIRTYARDS
Bass Fishing. At the pace of the saltwater flyfishing coast. Wexford, Ireland – est 2003.
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Author: Jim Hendrick
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Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.…
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The sea can do craziness, it can do smooth, it can lie down like silk breathing or toss havoc shoreward; it can give gifts or withhold all; it can rise, ebb, froth like an incoming frenzy of fountains, or it can sweet-talk entirely. As I can too, and so, no doubt, can you, and you.…
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When I looked down from the bridgeTrout were flipping the skyInto smithereens, the stonesOf the wall warmed me. Wading green stems, lugs of leafThat untangle and bruise(Their tiny gushers of juice)My toecaps sparkle now Over the soft fontanelOf Ireland. I should wearHide shoes, the hair next my skin,For walking this ground: Wasn’t there a spa-well,Its…
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Perhaps the hardest thing about losing a lover is to watch the year repeat its days.It is as if I could dip my hand down into time and scoop upblue and green lozenges of April heat a year ago in another country. I can feel that other day running underneath this onelike an old videotape…
THIRTYARDS 