Haibun for a secret pool
I found the pool in the winter, when all the leaves had fallen, the alley of trees that led to it, columns with no vault. The path beneath was thick with leaves and dug and scraped by pig and deer. A heron lifted slow, calling hoarse anger when we came near, the dogs and I.
The pool was deep in winter and still, white with fallen blossom in spring, and the summer trees are thick now all about, the alley of trees a nave again.
The water is ancient, coelacanth-green, dark-scaled reflecting no light, insect-dimpled, a skin that twitches, a stillness in perpetual motion, tail-flicked, bubble-trailed.
In the stillness we watch and listen, dogs silent as carp, as the pool, the trees, the whispering birds absorb our unnatural presence. We watch fish-shadows rise and drift from aeons ago through brown and green and grey, watch ageless mouths open, for an instant, in this world of bright ephemera, and insect skimmers rush out of the light and into prehistoric dark.
Still summer shadows
water dark as the spaces
between the stars.
Jane Dougherty
Bios and Links
Jane Dougherty
lives and works in southwest France. A Pushcart Prize nominee, her poems and stories have been published in magazines and journals including Ogham Stone, the Ekphrastic Review, Black Bough Poetry, ink sweat and tears, Gleam, Nightingale & Sparrow, Green Ink and Brilliant Flash Fiction. She blogs at https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/ Her poetry chapbooks, thicker than water and birds and other feathers were published in October and November 2020.

Thank you for this wild prompt