by Chris Beckett

Islands of fresh green pine walking through the water

threads of blue smoke from tiny cottages      Basho rests his pen

but later picks it up again     (like you, your pencil)                 

sitting at the window of an inn       he feels the weight of praise

already poured on Matsushima    what more to say (or draw)    about the beautiful    even about love

except that it is here and now    and lovely     as the most lovely lake in China?