Maybe you were right:
That man was moving towards destruction.
Maybe you were 100% correct,
And I was simply incorrect.
In central Canada he would marry her,
And against the Athabascan he would ply his paddle,
Guiding tourists down that tundra ribbon,
Its raging white-capped meanders,
Wearing bulky hats and heavy gloves.
Billowing breath of white steam,
In unimaginable cold.
He came from the humid green Pacquare river,
From Arenal, a small town two hours northwest of there.
We met him
Where she met him,
Where his paddle translated
Our giddy paddles’ enthusiasm
Over rushing bends,
Sinuous black ridges of glinting water
Hiding boulders.
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2 comments:
great poem, elliptical, evocative and at the same time telling a story that is readily understandable. If more poetry was like this, I'd read poetry all the time.
I agree with Eliot!
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