A fang of lightning crashes
a branch into the wind-clawed loch.
Thunder drives eels to the bottom.
Water flashes down
a mountain rising through the skin of the lake.
The monster loves the rain.
She leans back her head
so drops can ring
into her nostrils, pelt
the giant tongue slid out
over teeth big as goat horns.
She charges whitecaps, chomps the froth
and geysers it toward the hidden moon.
When dawn begins to nibble away the storm,
she’s motionless. Scales stand sharp as razors,
trapped stickleback bleed between them.
She tidals her spine,
flips the silver bodies free,
then spikes the gray-pink sky with her tail.
~ Previously published in Images poetry magazine in 1981. Print only. ~
David Henson and his wife have lived in Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now reside in Peoria, Illinois. His work has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes, Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net and has appeared in numerous print and online journals including The Metaworker, Fictive Dream, Pithead Chapel and Moonpark Review. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.
Photo by Michael Dam on Unsplash
Loch Ness piece – sharp portrait of action. True stanza breaks that capture movements and like the skin of lake, and spikes the sky. George Lies
PS – I once got lost in Brussels plaza area, and still carry that Kafka feeling from being at train station.
Thanks for commenting, George. I’m glad you like the poem. Yes, the area around the Grand Place is beautiful and interesting, but it’s easy to get turned around there!
Thanks for commenting, George. It’s easy to lose your bearings around the Grand’ Place!
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