The River


At dusk, follow a track by the river
until you reach a channel,
dividing the bank, where lit windows
of island houses flicker
like a shoal of candles, beneath water
and you can go no further.
Then, stand a while, in the mauve light, breathing.
And as you breathe out, forgetting the day,
something unfolds itself
like a wing spanning great distance –
flies out to meet the sounds of evening
symphony of insects tuning strings.
You become the air and the music,
the mauve light and the candles.
The raft beneath your feet no longer grass,
nor even earth, but something finer.
Though the bank is broken,
the path sheer down to dark and shining water,
you’ve travelled great distance –
the river unwinds before you.