A fishermanskirting shorein his high-prowed skiffcrossing bamboo oarscomes up with a jolt –nets catch not fishbut the wizened fingerof a submerged branchfor belowa sunken valley persists –slick bare trunksfurred in wafting frondshave water for sky,ghost forest.Roots rot deep in the hillwhere buried rockis still dry.
Excerpt from the poem Yangtze by Sarah Howe
























