Rivers are singers, they flow in songlines … did you know? This poem shows you.
They are one, your waters,
all ages together.
The valley sky cracks all along with your roar.
Here you ring – D sharp, C sharp, ping.
At each step I strike your poems,
your ribs of water-song that burst with news –
the faces that stare from the balanced rock,
the fords that lace the lace of your foam
and flies thin as thorns’ ends and
acorn-amber and green-nesses of
unrepeated un-numbered fronds …
The colt whinnies.
All this (the river says), all this
(oh starry-eyed traveller)
lessens. All this feeds a fire
you must thwart.
Image copyright Lewis Clarke, licensed for re-use under Creative Commons license