The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
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This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
The River Speaks
Look at me now...
how did I come to this?
What you call picturesque:
to me, old age. Obesity.
I was the line you did not cross
except with caution.
Red DANGER signs were everywhere,
on even my least racy stretches. Straight
down the line of least resistance
like a saw through timber, I went, meriting
the narrowest of lines when drawn on maps.
I'm thicker now, more broadly beamed.
The lines are curved these days,
are full of bends and slow meanders -
and you'll be loving that,
and how I'm kinder now to trees...
but how I miss youth's rush. Impetuosity!
Though silky surfaced, sliding wide between
green banks and greener greenery
or corduroyed in breeze.
Where pummelled, tumbled, all textiles torn once all together,
water falling between between rocky outcrops,
I was a life-line for a population
short of water without me.
I who never toed a line
before this late existence,
drew the line at sedentary life.
Made my own line of force.
Nothing but a line of sight these days
for lines of artists, anglers, tourists
and the like. Not in my line
to change things any more.
The image was provided as prompt by http://www.magpietales.blogspot.co.uk/