On the Shore
The winter sun was at its zenith.
His head poking above dry grass on a riverbank,
an old man of eighty-nine was fishing.
Holding a pole,
talking over old times with winter fish
swimming under reflected scatterd clouds,
sun was lowering.
A cabbage butterfly tottered
toward the other bank.
Fish were calling the old man.
A small red cork
bobbing up and down,
made faint ripples.