How I dream of Giverny in this lovely weather and envy you for being there, you have no idea. But I am a prisoner and must see it through, despite being completely drained. It’s exhausting and I’m working with feverish ardour.”
Claude Monet
My bridges postcards collection.
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