RIGA                                                                                          

 

I walk a narrow ledge far above the ancient city’s teeming,

it’s swerving cobblestones, a Pushkin statue shines

in this park reminding of old Paris.

 

A canal below gleams near paths that curve through birches.

Couples stroll among fragrant flowers, lovers eased

by Springtime’s burst of beauty, grateful for this warming.

 

Earlier I wandered Daugava’s edge alone in Riga’s chilly air.

A woman and her white-haired man sat still on morning’s

grassy banks, fishing poles in ruddy hands were steady,

translucent lines thrust far out.

 

They hoped to land enough fish to grill at dusk

with new potatoes and beetroot, swilled down

with vodka fire. With bellies fat and glad

he’d pinch her cheek, whisper spasiba

for their pleasing supper.

 

Now as evening’s northern light slants gold

as melted butter, as lush as vespers sung

by god-soaked monks in this Baltic state

far from home’s palm-treed ocean,

 

you and I avoid each other’s eyes while time flows fast

into the Gulf of Riga for perhaps, one last embalming.

 

At end of day in late May, mute we wait like an old couple fishing

where weeds caress the vast Daugava’s bleeding. We wait and wait

for what’s unnamed and barely breathing, for something eluding

 

us now that may resurface or not, that might never be caught--

a whirlpool swirls eight feet downstream and I am under/

water, seething.

 

 

** ‘spasiba’ -- ‘thank you’ in Russian