Downstream Poem by Gert Strydom

The empty fields were
winter desolated and sleeping
until the next spring and their new awakening
while fog was creeping in

misting out the buildings
and only lines of red tiled roofs
was fused in long strings
with the rising sun

that was blotted out by grey clouds
that was whirling around
and in the river the boat floated on
with willows on the bank
standing like lonely sentries
in a blotted out world.