From the river’s murk an island rises,
a lantern on a stump that never burns.
Three small shirts hang where no footprints go.
Rumour skims the water like spilled oil.
Men on the bank point with cigarette hands;
dogs halt, ears pricked; shutters draw their teeth.
Night settles with a bone-cold quiet.
Only one reed argues with the dark.
Footprints sink. The current combs the shore.
We say names we will not cross.
Someone left a child’s shoe on the quay.
The island keeps what we do not ask for.
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The New Renaissance Mindset 
very compelling imagery; great post!
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🙏 thank you 💚
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This poem unfolds like a slow-moving apparition, rich with atmosphere, shadow, and the quiet tension of the unsaid. Its power lies not only in the stark imagery but in the emotional undertow created by what the poem deliberately withholds. Every line seems to gesture toward a story submerged just beneath the surface — a story the river knows, the island keeps, and the people refuse to voice.
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Wow! Thank you! I feel there are different voices speaking in each version. They all came from the island.
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