November Yeats 25

 

‘And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.’—W.B. Yeats

 

If I were a silver fish

I would dart through the dark reeds

seeking you, following you

wherever you chose to lead

 

Or I would suddenly twist

in the clear water, sunlight

shafting down, and, laughing, I

would lead you for a little while

 

and in the evening, when the

stream water glows like fire, we

would rest, side by side, just touching,

yin and yang, we would fall asleep

 

Day 25 of this cold, bleak November, brightened considerably by Jane Dougherty’s Yeats fiesta.