Recently I’ve been wittering on about prose poetry and now Poetry Thursday has set a prose poem as their completely optional topic. Well, here is my effort; as far as I’m concerned it’s just a little packet of prose.
He stands upright in his small wooden boat, a small man with a long oar, punting towards the shore. He is in his own shadow; the dots of his eyes and the protuberances of his ears just discernible; his face as smooth as a polished wooden ornament. The man, his clothes, the boat, the oar and a jetty are all chocolate brown; behind him the dirty lime green sky and water merge at the horizon. It is dusk and the sun is a rose coloured disk that casts its beam of pink light across the water. All around is stillness; even the ripples created by the oar hardly disturb the water. The man is returning home after visiting sick relatives on the other side of the river. He has been away for two days. As he comes nearer to the shore I see that he is not a man at all: he is just a boy; a boy with fair hair under the brown beret. Standing on the jetty are two fishermen. They have been watching him since he appeared as a speck in the dusky light; they are his brothers. As they watch they talk of their mother’s fear that he would not return. The boy places his oar in the water for the last time, sliding silently to rest at the side of the jetty. Two bundles on the side of his boat slip noiselessly into the water.