Human shapes in hollowed out plastic
Paddle past mirrored trees and
benches of remembrance.
Panelled pine time keepers that
Rest in peace on the left bank
Stroking the shore every half a knot or so,
Tied to the ground.
Red bricked chimneys
Get lost in mallard made ripples.
I am not sure where I fit into all of this.
Paddle man. Pass by.
Forest Sketch
The forest has no answers.
The forest has memory
But has learned how to die and live again.
The forest has memory.
Some of them are also mine.
I envy what is newly born
That knows no songs of life well worn.
Water.
For the first time in months.
There are three men in a boat,
Who don’t know what they are looking for.
Neither do I.
There are small, sherbet side of yellow coloured, newly flowered flowers
And I have no idea how they have been named.
The thin tall barked trees stand at slight attention,
Stiltedly leaning in, unceremoniously dressed in phthalo green ivy scarves,
Forming a guard of honour for their returning guest.
This is the first time he has not cried here while walking alone.
Algo is from Ireland. In self-imposed self-isolation, Algo only wears black and enjoys studying the school of Austrian Economics, reading comic books and meditating. Believes organised religion is a club, but is not nihilistic.
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