New Poetry From Boreegard

The Brook on May 23


At the evening’s last pool,
Two bats swoop in tandem and strafe the water,
As I send my line upstream, searching for trout.

The Grandparents’ Pool, where once we laved
Their old anglers ashes,
First he in his year of death,
Then she in her’s.

I think of reincarnation, and worry,
That the reincarnate might bite,
On my Dark Cahill’s barb.

One last cast, times three,
Then, up through dark childhood woods,
Stumbling home,
Troutless, breathless, content.



BOREEGARD
aka Mike O'Neil