Fishing

Who can explain what holds me

at the rivers edge: is it the scent

of water, or the sound of liquid

slipping over stone, the solitude,

or, then again, the line unfurling

back and forth through whispered air,

like breath, perhaps, or maybe prayer,

or the White Wulff, light as milkweed,

drifting, or that moment when

the salmon leaps, such silver shining,

fish, fly, sky, as if the river catches fire.

And so I wonder how it was that when

He met them by the sea, and all He said

was "Follow me," they turned, it seemed,

with no regret, leaving boats and nets

behind, as if He was the fish they sought,

as if their hearts burned even then.

SARAH ROSSITER*

* Sarah Rossiter is a lay spiritual director and a published poet.

Copyright Anglican Theological Review, Inc. Summer 2006
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