Sunday, November 11, 2018

Nets, a poem


From their crescent boats, the poets cast
their fathers’ ancient and oft-mended nets
across the dark, into the deep, unknown,

unknowable, in hopes of tangling truth,
some blind supple swimming truth, in woven
words, a mesh of metaphor. Their fathers,

yes, their fathers’ fathers cast them so,
catching their own meanings. Those decay
upon the silvered shores. The moon is setting.

Stephen Brooke ©2018

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