THIRTYARDS
Bass Fishing. At the pace of the saltwater flyfishing coast. Wexford, Ireland – est 2003.
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Category: Seeing
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https://t.co/RjiLnYOXjU
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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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I thought of walking round and round a space Utterly empty, utterly a source Where the decked chestnut tree had lost its place In our front hedge above the wallflowers. The white chips jumped and jumped and skited high. I heard the hatchet’s differentiated Accurate cut, the crack, the sigh And collapse of what luxuriated…
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THIRTYARDS 