At six
I sit
upon a spit
where the river meets the lake
far but calling close
to uncle and father
those moments
of lapping water on a cool afternoon
free of midges
the fish feeding elsewhere
my uncle and father, baritone and bass
beer and elbows on the picnic table
facing the shore
they more musing
than conversation
more away than with each other
as I
out on that rocky point
wash out
among shipping lanes
to another deeper sea
the older me
sixty years
revisits
men still sit at
that table or another
worn grey as lowering sky
I sit
upon the spit
where the river meets the lake
the place
I first
widened
to here.
