He was standing alongside the bank, hat in hand, eyes lost

to the movement and the glare of stunning sunlight, hearing immersed in the hiss

and trickle, splash and gurgle, the lapping up onto smooth river stones.

There was something floating by, a shape I’d seen

in dreams. It drifted along until it reached the soft pink

smooth inside of a conch shell, too big to be held, too big

to be blown. Caught in the eddy

it swirled there until my eyes opened.

Who was he, and why had he come again? And where

was his place on the chessboard of my life?

I don’t understand what it is

the river brought me. I only know he said

nothing, he said so much.

© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019