There, like a maniac just freed from chains,
the Tisza rushed in rage across the plains;
roaring and howling through the dyke it swirled,
greedy to swallow up the whole wide world.
End of the poem The Tisza
by Sándor Petofi
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