The Illusion

The Illusion

 

At mid ebb I was sitting at the side of

a tidal creek along the edge of the marsh

that cushions Essex Bay like a large soft pillow

placed on a  hard granite bed.

 

The stream was long and snaked off into the distance

reflecting both the border marsh grass and the

thin clouds far overhead.  The stones in the water

were like signposts showing the way to the sea.

 

What a lovely scene, I thought, how gentle and sublime.

This is the way to experience life; immersed in beauty,

a vision to hold onto – a flashback of the

best there is –  a remembrance of joyful days.

 

Three hours later, the stream was gone, the rock filled

bed was mud, no more a mirror of sky and grass .

And the rocks, alone and exposed, spoke only of what had been;

my river of peace and beauty now empty.

 

This must be a magician’s trick, an illusion that

appears and enthralls only to disappear

at the pass of a wand or the murmuring

of some secret and ancient incantation.

 

But I am the sorcerer. I am the illusionist

who attaches to objects and scenes the word

sublime. I conjure up the images to

be remembered; if not for me, beauty would not be.

 

Marty Luster