The Statue Poem by John Rickell

Gold fins in the lake
water boatman rowing
to the lily pad; heavy air and still,
willows drooping to the bank.
no breeze to stir the leaves,
while in its shade
Jack dreams of mountain streams.
Nothing moves, July sleeps,
and day is done.
Watches cease their ticking,
urgent work unheeded.
Hens lie with the cat,
cockrels stop their crowing,
my book closed un-read.
I kiss the placid lake,
join the dreaming dog,
not mountain streams
far away and long ago
more distant as the hours pass,
more lovely than the gold fin.
Ebony arms naked to the moon
glowing in the silver light
cupped hands about my face
bid me drink once more....
water-boatman and the gold fin
willows drooping to the bank