A mallard alone in the Nishava River,
rippling weir, stones submerged,
mist obscuring the far, paved shore.
I do not see the duck disappear.
At the internment camp, we sit
under a walnut tree, on a sloping bench.
A redstart throws itself to the grass,
recoils swiftly back to the top of a wall.
Eagles circle.
It is bare, the building where prisoners slept, frigid.
A shirt hangs in a glass cabinet,
windows overlook barbed wire.
Skulls on a shelf, nameless.
We walk along the river, find the mallard with its mate,
watch sparrows in a gaunt bush.
The bridge to the castle is intact.
It was not long ago we were in Kyiv,
summer, a sarong for a picnic rug, in the shade
of chestnuts, oaks.
I slip out of loneliness,
a flock of pigeons overflowing the square.
A priest walks by dressed in black.
By Ion Corcos
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Ion Corcos was born in Sydney, Australia in 1969. He has been published in Cordite, Meanjin, Wild Court, The Sunlight Press, and other journals. Ion is a nature lover and a supporter of animal rights. He is the author of A Spoon of Honey (Flutter Press, 2018).