Ed, wait no longer...
Ann Drysdale, Commended
Pale lips, Ophelia’s, kissing the cool surface
before the grey-green turn, the disappearance.
A swift glimpse of an unsuspected tench
left in the depths of the abandoned pond
the day I shut the gate and let it be.
Now, decades later, I’ve reclaimed the land,
stepping back into the old shared vision,
renewing my acquaintance with the trees,
keeping our promise to the unseen creatures
that have made homes among the dereliction.
I am restoring our beloved pond,
wondering if I’ll see those waxy lips,
wishing I might, hoping I don’t, believing
that for as long as I remain unsure
the old tench will be safe among the lilies.
Taken for granted, hypothetical,
my faith will save it, like applause for fairies,
like the imagined cat of every colour
preserved forever in a lidless box
as a beloved possibility.