The Statue

   
Gold fins in the lake  
water boatman rowing  
to the lily pad; heavy air and still,  
willows drooping to the bank.  
no breeze to stir the leaves,  
while in their shade  
Jack dreams of mountain streams.  
Nothing moves, July sleeps,  
and day is done.  
Watches cease their ticking,  
urgent work unheeded.  
Hens lie with the cat,  
cockrels stop their crowing,  
my book closed un-read.  
I kiss the placid lake,  
join the dreaming dog,  
not mountain streams  
far away and long ago  
more distant as the hours pass,  
more lovely than the gold fin.  
Ebony arms naked to the moon  
glowing in the silver light  
cupped hands about my face  
bid me drink once more . . . .  
Water-boatman and the gold fin  
willows drooping to the bank.