(Cutchogue, Long Island, New York)
The air is still, the Crick is low and clear;
and like the rain slanting down from storm clouds,
the sun’s rays streak this watery atmosphere
and light the mud bottom and wrinkled kelp shrouds.
We pole the old boat and silently pass
through a broken wall of mud and green rush,
into a salt pond hidden by marsh grass,
floating, weaving with the prow’s gentle push.
Through the muddy bank, the tides barely seep;
and under the pond’s smooth slick, thick with sun,
gray leaf flecks float, then settle, where the years lay
their ruin in a watery carbon heap
in the pond’s bed, as they have always done,
and will ’til all the centuries decay.
Robert Pelgrift practiced law in New York City for many years and is now an editor for a legal publisher, working in New York City. His poems have been published in various anthologies and in The Lyric, The Rotary Dial, The Galway Review, The Foxglove Journal and The Waggle.
Foxglove Journal 