The canoe glides like wind From marsh out into freer water Remote pink forest melds slowly Into close wall of green. The opaque lake borrows Color where it can, From tree leaf to raspberry sun, To the blur of faces. Ripple, light, motion, Fog breath, wood duck, fish splash. Sometimes, the boughs are birdless. Sometimes a warbler trills . . . Such a small beak to contain The only song worth singing. --John Grey John Grey is an Australian-born poet,…
John GreyNovember 16, 2004