Old tin bucket

Old tin bucket

Gone, fishing.

That's what the note said. Left me alone, wishing. In the stillness of the morning, wishing dishes would dance and cups would wash themselves out. I could go out in the fog, prance about naked to release my tension. No one would see. I could even join them on the dock of the bay of this inland sea.

What will they bring me today? How many minnows will flash beneath them unseen. How many eyes-of-the-wise will look up, not foolish to take their bait to dine and be dined on this May day. M'aider? No one.

And who will fall in to join in their swim, be fished out to sit on the dock by the bucket to dry. I could cry like the mist curling round me in stillness. But dishes don't dance with the fork and the spoon and the fishknives need sharpening. In the hush of the morning, without children to cheer me or even a bucket (muther-fuck-it) to mop the floors, I'm marooned. May they come back soon, return soon.

gone, fishing
took the children
the old tin bucket

I got the kid up at first light, fed and out by the dawn. Left a note. Quiet as fog, we snuck out with poles, rods, worms and the old tin bucket. No need to wake the dead with our racket.

We padded to the dock through the the mist curling round us, its tendrilled caress beckoning us not to break the stillness of water or fall in. Jake almost did. We spoke in a shush, crept soft on the dock, to not startle the fish. We wished to fool them with worms and shiny new bait. I said we would wait for dinner to swim in. In the fog and the breath of the morning we wait till they come. They will come.

below planks
stillness of water
and old eyes

I almost fell in! But my sister caught me. Too bad. I wanted to swim with the frogs beyond where they can hurt me, where the fog can conceal me. I hate them! Spearing worms, gutting fish. I wish they would kick-the-bucket, fall in. See what it's like beneath the surface of tension, the stillness within. I speak to the fish. I promise the wise-ones, soon I will join you. I will join you.

fog curls round
the children with poles
the surface tenses

They come this way often in the stillness of the brightening day. They think we sleep, that we're deaf, that we cannot see what they dare not say. But the young one speaks and we listen. They come with food to entice the foolish among us, those who seek to glisten above the surface tension, but we've heard of the bucket and we weep though we cannot weep.

mist shrouded dock
an old tin bucket
wiggle of worms

Amidst the pain and adrift in the rain, they seek freedom and cry out my name, "Yara! Yara!" They drown in my mists and my life-giving-waters. For I am the Goddess of Life-Giving-Waters. From my flight through the sky, I'll shed two tears in their bucket, two tears ...

plink plink
the freedom of sky
and of water

© Kåre Enga 2008 [164.549FTL] 2008-03-09


This was a response to "Invalid Entry"  by grim for "Follow the Leader"   by mood indigo . The original was based on the photograph found here: "Short Shots: Official WDC Contest" .

Cultural notes:

I was reading "Green Mountain, White Cloud" by French author, Francois Cheng. Water and loss and longing feature in the chapter I'm reading.

Yara has two meanings. In Cuba it is the cry of the revolution. In Brazil it is the goddess of Fresh Waters. I was speaking to Yara, a K.U. student from Portugal yesterday.

"Two tears in a bucket, muther-fuck-it", a good line from the novel Midnight in the Garden of good and Evil.

"Sitting on the Dock of the Bay" was a popular song in the 60s.

The repetition of bucket was purposeful. It is a poetic device used in many forms, the sestina for one.

The various viewpoints of a single event is influenced by the Akira Kurasawa's great movie, "Roshomon"