T h e   W e i r

That year
(and it does not matter which year it was)
I sat by the weir
where the waters which massed and fell
spoke of an other life
beyond the surface one I watched.

Tides, of course, currents underneath,
the destiny of water to flow to ends
I could not follow
as I concentrated on the boats
and water hens as if I could gather
some clues from them
yet lost myself in their antics and calls
under a sky which spoke
of substance and airy nothingness
as a haiku occurred but I did not
write it —better to live that moment once
then attempt its second life on the page
even though I relive it here in this memory
which has never left me.

Once, twice,
or in whatever version I tell myself
the moment lives on in a purity
untouched by consequence.
The water falls, the hens swim out,
I'm held and named by what will happen next.