I hear the geese without seeing the pattern they make against the sky
Their unseen cries create spirit paths, lost meanders
A rising village with linked canopies of limes
Black rooks in hanging baskets from top heavy elms
Brooks of see through shrimps and sharp eyed fish
The gods left mussel beds and Roman snails –
Here is the school, the wheat, the church, the river.
I used to swim in light, licking weeds making love
To my legs and arms, floating like a dreaming waterbaby
Amid lily pads and juicy stalks and currents
Not understanding my own blurry wants
Opening for the kiss of clear delicious water.
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