Trout
S
Sheena Blackhall
0
Altın Yaprak
I walked between two oaks
To the hollow of the wind's nest
Where the loch lies lightly.
And there, I plucked a trout from a silver wave
In the coffin of the air it changed to a lead leaf.
It lay in its grassy shroud, a river godling,
Neither fish nor wonder,
A between-thing, a dream becoming sleep.
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