Adam Taylor


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They might almost be bushes, boulders,

they sit so still.

Night floods the meadow at their shoulders,

brims the canal, and renders rod and line


Traffic on the by-pass sighs

as if asleep.

A mallard claps derisively and flies.

Cows rip the grass. Its being chosen makes

the silence deep.

The rooms that penned them flicker in

synaptic light;

eyes gaze at screens; ears buzz with din;

the mirror that enchants these fishermen

is lost to sight.

Upon it, jobs, debts, children, wives

leave not a mark;

its stillness underlies their lives

and raises wordless thoughts, as shy as fish,

out of the dark.