Brought Up

BROUGHT UP

Having stared long enough to burn

away the debris, it becomes 

remarkably clear on looking up 

that one of the two wicker chairs

across the water is occupied

by the occupant who dances 

always an arm’s length away, 

like the dog who dangles  

the matching sock from his jaws. 

What is equally clear is that 

he is waiting for you, but that if 

you go around the lake and sit 

in the chair you will be sitting there 

alone. The water is still enough

to walk on, but you have

only brought one pair of shoes 

and too much weight to levitate 

and it's cold. You don’t believe 

it will hold, and it doesn’t, 

so you break through the algae 

when you try, then lay your faith 

and shoes by the fire to dry. 

The chairs remain as empty as before 

on the opposite shore, but don’t deny

that something underneath

left the shelter of the reeds, 

rippled, nearly breached.