PROLOGUE
 
Perfect Peace
 
The angler only moves
two fingers and a wrist.
The water breaks and smooths.
 
The stillness of that stone
beneath the surface is
something more than its own.
 
And the heron’s image
serrates what should be clear
waters beyond the weir.
 
Bullrushes at the edge
and the slightest of winds
satins moss. And the dredge
 
stirs up as with desire
clouds of silt and bright things
like stainless steel barbed wire.
 
Stone, turn and show your fins
before it is too late.
Which shadow takes the bait?
 
 
The Hum Word
IM Georges Frêche
 
The word ‘humanity’ makes me want to weep.
‘Humane’ as in ‘treatment’ makes me spit with scorn.
‘It’s only human’ sticks in the throat. I can’t speak.
‘Humankind’ touches the heart, but comes with a warning.
Plain ‘human’ is what I live with, cheek to cheek.