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Skin Canoes

Rating: 4.5

Swallows carve lake wind,
trailers lined up, fish tins.
The fires of a thousand small camps
spilled on a hillside.

I pull leeks, morels from the soil,
fry chubs from the lake in moonlight.
I hear someone, hear the splash, groan
of a waterpump, wipe my mouth.
Fish grease spits at darkness.

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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Subhas Chandra Chakra 30 August 2016

I hear someone, hear the splash, groan of a water pump, wipe my mouth. Fish grease spits at darkness. Beautiful lines from a lovely poem. Thanks poet for sharing the poem.10 for it. Subhas

1 0 Reply
Ratnakar Mandlik 30 August 2016

A beautifully conceived equally beautiful poem. Thanks for sharing.10 points.

2 1 Reply
Barry Middleton 30 August 2016

Very nice poem that captures the images, the feeling and experience of being at such a camp.

2 1 Reply
Edward Kofi Louis 30 August 2016

Spilled on a hillside! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.

3 1 Reply

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