Asked what day it was, you’d gaze
straight ahead, sentences awry.
On the doorstep brink you’d wait,
with bait tin and rod, then turn away
to stare unawares into the blue aquarium.
Names and dates slipped away, times
and places playful twisting things.
Recognition a slow muscle, an almost dream
beneath the surface like something flickering
in a stream, a shape displaced.
Down by the river, that trembling mirror,
muddy now and clogged with reeds
minnows scatter their silver threads, never
alone or far from safety. They travel in murmurs,
whispers of life between water and stone.
You always had such timid ways, like these nervous
light flares, skimming edges, slipping further
away. A choreography without audience. Now
you are letting go of the line and me hooked
to the bank, marking time.