The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by C.B. Anderson


Along the river, random shadows dapple

the narrow, willow-bowered beaten path

which leads directly from the white-washed chapel

to gravel banks where shriven couples go

in summer to redeem the aftermath

of doing time in church.  A few canoes

invade the lazy ripples—somewhat slow

against the gentle current, faster when

their prows are aimed downstream—and viewers lose

themselves in elemental tug-of-wars

between their habits and their dreams.  Amen

once stood for closure; now it only breeds

dissent among the galley slaves whose oars

are locked in mud.

The sandwiches are dry;

the bread's been spread with less than what it needs;

it's much too warm to slather mayonnaise

without the fear of taint; and though they try,

the waders near the landing cannot quite

evade the tide of imminent malaise

arising from the waters.
It's only Sunday,

with hours of light and all the coming night

for wondering how the day will break on Monday.

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