Kingfisher’s dash with trill and pluck and dive
headlong into the poet’s river.

He stands, as poets do, ashore, with friends.

They wander, drinking wine
On either bank their ledgers long, taking note.

*
And the egrets are there, the great blue
heron, is there, lowest of the arch-angels,
and an eagle swoops from their nest, seeking
(let’s name it) sushi, &, raucous rowdy
at sunset ravens returning home
& on the shore, departed.

So many have departed.  You gather

*
their sandals.  Waves rising gently rewrite
the calligraphy.  Who walked here?  Sappho,
fragments (evening light on the bare branches),
a fraction, a crumb of her lyre.

>Kingfisher’s dash with trill and pluck and dive

*
into the white water rushing past
boulders shaken by time from the mountain
we climbed once.  Slowly the mountain itself
crumbles, and the names on the memorial
stones, effaced.  We descend slowly now.

Kingfisher’s dash with trill and pluck and dive
into white water, sharp as the needle
weaving the tapestry nobody
completes.  You know the one I mean.  Listen
now
& on the shore, departed.

The poet holds always another’s lyre
& sings what they have gathered from the drift/
wood, the scattered shells—illegible
calligraphy…

*
we climbed once, do you remember, yes
& on the shore, departed.

They leave us their fishing rods, lures, anecdotes,
a disposition for the five rivers,
& the two, here, on this shore.

*
the calligraphy of footprints.  There,
dog frolicked.

Kingfisher’s dash with trill and pluck and dive
headlong into the poet’s river.  They
have often enough entertained each
other here with quill & jug at sunrise,
at sundown.

*
meditating, birds
Laconic, fidgety or driven in their flight
are there, & the poet imagines them
there, raven, eagle, his youth’s proud peacock
& on the shore, departed.

John Copley Alter was born and raised in India, currently teaches IB Literature in Pioneer Valley, Massachusetts, having traveled the world in that capacity and in the company of his partner and their three children–China, India, west Africa, is a lifelong a companion of poetry, trying always to practice.