A version of this piece first appeared on Trampset In April, the reality of the pandemic fades into the background as my family deals with our own internal crisis. The house is in Kemsing, a southern English village in the Kent countryside. It is nestled on the slopes of the North Downs, a range of…
Finding them dead on returning from vacation,
she flushed her six African Cichlids.
You caught me, Foxglove, with your upright colour. You turned me from the river thinking I had been alone. I liked your pale and speckled belly, and the tiny fragile hairs guarding your mouth.
“For most of us living in Europe or the US, we’re so used to seeing altered rivers that we don’t know what a wild river looks like.”
Their heads out, curved eyes on us,
reciprocating the salty, convex cabin.
Look, there, beautiful wooden bowling balls, said my mum.
Keith Moul is a poet of place, a photographer of the distinction of place. His digital photos strive for a colourful vision with their high contrast and saturation. Both his poems and photos are published widely and available on his website, http://poemsphotosmoul.blogspot.com. Lost Lip (2012) The Arches Provincial Park, Newfoundland Ran Out of…