Sprinkling of Words & Trouts

By Matthew James Friday

Trouts. Courtesy: Creative Commons

I see you sliding 
over the muddy gold
bed of the shallow river
as it slips into Lake Lugano.

You follow a flittering 
shoal of hope, gliding 
the thin layers between
the different forms of air.

I’m surprised by your size 
as you snuggle into the sheets
of river and light. Lord 
of the muddier moments,

king-sized in a peasant course,
you draw me down the line
of the green-grey water
until merging with the unseen.


"How far is between the stars, how much farther 
is what’s right here..."
 -- Rilke 

Late August evening,
light pollution a pastel scum
fronging the pre-Alps around Lugano.

I watch stars spell themselves.
The Big Dipper points its paw to Polaris.
Under Cassiopeia, the tail end

of the Perseid meteor show,
the dusty trail of the Swift-Tuttle comet
on its 34-year love loop of the sun.

I see only the last sparks,
as small as grains of sand, spluttering 
kisses of the final flares.

I’m not putting words in a god’s
gaping mouth; no sprung
mechanisms in mysterious workings.

I only have, as Einstein said, a
vague idea about that highest truth,
the radiant beauty of the unsearchable

and a sudden awareness 
at how fantastically minuscule
my part is. 
A few sprinkled words.


Drifting at the promenade of Desenzano Del Garda,
admiring freshly fallen snow on the mountains
that crown the pointed head of the Alpine lake.
A building north wind promises in waves.
Here is October tightening its chilling dress. 

We look down at the orange rock under our feet. 
Spun in the dark matter web of irregular lines 
a curling ammonite galaxy with ghostly white 
shell, a reminder of time flattened in plain sight.
The shell spins and I hear the clocks ticking 

trillions of divisions, turning rocks into sand,
caterpillars into butterflies, the hydrogen 
atoms into atomic bombs, my young parents 
into elderly people remembering their own
parents this age, and me a once immortal boy 

now a middle-aged facsimile, puzzled at how 
quickly the sand runs. Now back on the promenade, 
marvelling at the fossil, pointing it out to friends
who want to hurry on - aperitivo calling, snow 
falling, wine to be drunk, the absolute-zero of it all.

Matthew James Friday is a British born writer and teacher. He has been published in numerous international journals, including, recently: Dawntreader (UK), The Dillydoun Review (USA), Verbal Art (India), and Lunch Ticket  (USA). The micro-chapbooks All the Ways to Love, The Residents, Waters of Oregon and The Words Unsaid were published by the Origami Poems Project (USA). 



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