Tryst (Republished)


A moonlit Autumn evening
Waiting alone beside the river
No birdsong disturbs the air
A faint whisper of cloud

Gathers a handful of stones
Shies them skipping
Just how much water
Has passed under her bridge
Since they last met?

A rustle in the bushes
But no one emerges
Checks the time
Gives a deep sigh
Turns and walks away

Or else relief?

About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on March 1, 2018, in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 13 Comments.

  1. ‘Just how much water
    Has passed under her bridge
    Since they last met?’ – So poignant Ben, the full poem, though those lines in particular stuck a chord. I also like the way the design of the poem seems to slip down the page.

    – Esme musing herself upon the Cloud

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Ah, you did re-post it!! Wonderful poem, Ben. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Beautiful poem, Ben, and your last verse leaves one to wonder…

    Liked by 1 person

    • Once we recognise that we have no reliable knowledge of our future beyond conjecture nor any absolute control of it we can only be left with uncertainty. Of course it is more comfortable not to dwell on those truths too much though. 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

      • It’s ironic how your words resonate with our morning – not a good thing, either, but we’ve moved on. It’s Saturday, nice to not have to work, and good not to dwell on something that hurts our hearts. Sorry for rambling. Your comment just hit home…

        Liked by 1 person

      • We – our minds – our lives are always in motion. Some bits we like, others not so much but nothing lasts and it is really our attitude toward things that determines their impact on us. Now who’s rambling? 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

    • And thank you for your kind words about the poem, Lauren.

      Liked by 1 person

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