still glides the Stream and in its gliding
ever the same remains

she was eighteen
when we met by the river
her black hair
moving with the breeze
at her shoulders

when I move
in pace with the constant stream
stillness

walking and searching
my head this way and that
through busy streets
hoping to catch a glimpse
to meet by accident

a glimmer
the smallness of these hands
cupping water

paul conneally & debra woolard bender
from THE WORDSWORTH PAPERS

William Wordsworth after Pickersgill by Susumu Takiguchi