I came across a group of men drinking at a riverside.
They were mute, but the sound of the moving water had caught my attention.
The men drank on their knees, with cupped hands,
From the crimson and mercurial river-flow,
And I, watching without being seen,
was entranced, to see the golden banks of sand, on which their knees rested,
illuminate their soles and sandal backs.
Their toes pressed against the grass beyond the bank,
whose blades were soft, and verdant.
The grass was full as a great forest,
teeming with life, beyond what my eye could see.
I had watched them drink silently for what seemed to be
30 minutes, when I decided to leave. As I headed off,
I heard the sound of lapping water stop…
I paused for a moment, but did not turn back;
I continued, and the water’s lapping resumed.
The next day I went back to the riverside
To find the water clear, the sand a rusty-hue,
and the grass withered.
All that remained from yesterday was a sandal,
anchored in the shore banks.
I picked it up
and claimed it as my own,
though, I don’t wear it
Because it is January.
Yet, last night,
Somehow…
T'was late Spring.
© Jon Sysyn 2015