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
eyes gaze at screens; ears buzz with din;
the mirror that enchants these fishermen
is lost to sight.