Friday 22 June 2012

How does this gentle water really work?

How does this gentle water really work?
I mean, by swiftly arcing over limbs
Of foliage, or breathless teeming glints
of brown spontaneous depths, can sooth the hurt
I felt before I strode along your banks.

This river is my rambling confidant.
It filters out the minerals from the silt
As meditating, I fall on thoughts withheld
And pierce my vision through the surging sphinx
Until I, chance, discern my murky mind.

So soft, the babbling weep of lingering sound.
Bluebells lace the rimples of your brow
As I do tread the clefting of the plough
And know that something hallowed yokes the ground.
How does this gentle water really work?

I ask this as I mooch about the ark
And notice how the seasoned grain is me
With blood all spewing into tiny trees
that litter all my meaty bony garb.
This vain and timely life span is a lark.

And all this temporary discourse in the park
This aimless dynamo of secret fire
Baking every insight and desire
Lives beside this elemental spark.
How does this gentle water really work? 



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