Scar curve in the flat grass-covered plain
seen from the hill above.
                                     River’s swing
was there once,
silting the curve’s inside,
cutting under the outer bank.

A cut-off piece,
a pond going stagnant.
Filling-with-dirt call it, and now
by relief of the low sun
I see where it was.

No one now alive saw water there.
Why do I
so like it? What pleasure,
this music of no resolution,
this tune of the filled meander!




William Gilson

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