FISH QUILL POETS
I dreamt of six poets floating down a river.
They came ashore and read their words.
One was tall and spoke with gentle precision,
and one had brown eyes and small hands.
One was square and beautiful.
Two had ears to speak and a mouth to shape the words.
One only sang… songs that drifted back and forth into my childhood.
They all moved gracefully in space
aware that each step and word might be sacred,
aware that some things were small, though trees were great
and humans a complex thing.
A poem is a beautiful thing to float down a river,
receding like a dream,
the paper in the water among the waves and sharp sunlight,
the land merely banks to guide the current.
I awoke and went down to the river.
They came ashore again.
I told them I was getting used to water and they needn’t worry.
I said that I’d been out to sea and would return there.
But for now, I would haul myself upon the shore like an old lungfish
and dream of the river.
Peter Skoggard, June, 2013
A group of poets and a musician tour by canoe along the Grand River, Ontario.