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