Perhaps Poseidon
had wielded it
like a magic wand
under the sea.

Three worn,
steel tines
curved to a common
cylindrical base
that gripped
a weathered
worn old pole
long enough
to grab the dock
with the bent tine.

He used to spear
mud pouts
in fresh spring
when dandelions
bloomed along the shore.

Now he was as dead
as Poseidon
and although
he could never
hold pitch
to sing out
over the waves
the trident
could still
sing of him
for his great
grand children.

Whose eyes
grew wide
as we sang
his mighty
silly deeds.



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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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