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Sunday 5 February 2012
The Weeping Willow
The way it craves the river is well known.
Here though, on waterless terrain
persistence in its search for moisture leads
to form, the shape and feel of water -
there from the beginning in its name.
I look at it sometimes, imagining
I'm looking at its age-old fantasy
(obsession does make doubles of us all)-
a redefining of the term wet dream.
The dream is written clear in movements
of its silken skirt, smoothed by fingers
thin and thalli-like that, dipped
into the aqua apparition, will
be played like harp strings or become
a corps de ballet of the evening breeze.
Magpies flick through deeper streams
like bottom shadows of lost fish.
Stray sunbeams probe its depths.
Last night, ice covered when I looked,
I saw a frozen cataract - the dream
takes many shapes - a thousand tiny
water flows arrested by the cold.
White water in a different form.
Linking to dVerse Poets', The Object is Poetics.