for Linda and Renate

by Rodger Martin

Maritime dawn spots mirrored sunlight on a silent, moving river.
The black-and-white perpetual motion of an English Setter
flashes along the banks while I, the anonymous eye,
watch a woman in waders, carrying fly rod, mount an open boat
slowly poled by a She Charon across the Miramichi
to an Atlantic land and release of salmon. There,
on the bar, water washing stone of any deceit, they cast
the filaments of their lives in softly whistling “S’s.”
Again and again they place the ring of their offerings
perfectly before the eyes of their beholders.
Downstream, seven goslings in perfect line, paddle
behind their goose, the gander keeping them close
until they reach shore and choice grass then scatter
like children under the eye of watchful parents.

Do they not know a more eponymous I, an Ozymandias below
lurks, smirk dangled beneath the cold surface of the iris?