In honor and remembrance of a really great guy:
Borge
The misty early morning echoes with silence
And pauses to listen to the creaking of rotten wood
Then follows a muffled footstep, an anchor being stowed away
There is a soft splash of a paddle, and ripples burble along the shore.
Into the lake the fisherman guides his boat
Into the softening waters and damp dewy air.
The trees on the shore hear only a scrape
As he baits his hook, and casts, and waits.
A thousand years might come and go
As fishermen leave the sleeping land
And guide their vessels onto the waters
And bait their hooks, and cast, and wait.
The loons, alone, will accompany them
Silently gliding through the mists of time.
- Diane Mathews, 1989
