a sun mid-day, dawning between

two parted snow clouds.

A gold vein sliding through the landscape

weaving of a fine silk thread in damask curtains

.

.

Odd

That the river water would heed

my touch to the surface push out

.

the months are like days

I read Peter Cole, Jerusalem

he walks and I think of travel

seven years on remembering one thing.

.

Will it be the same freedom

asserting itself

when I visit the same place

a decade later?

.

The calm water flowing the

wrong direction.

.