River

under thick brambles
a stream runs through an arch
in an old stone wall
–
empty talons-
a chipmunk
avoids its fate

children of gaia-
seeking purchase in every
crack in the pavement
–
dripping eaves-
english ivy climbs
these old stone walls

pearly morning mist
the crew of eight rows as one
curling flat water
–
bulrushes-
a passing wake
laps the shore

hoping against hope
to stem the incoming tide
and still it rises
–
august-
forsaken
by the sun

split in two at birth-
all these years spent searching for
that which makes me whole
–
wild horses-
where the river
meets the sea

misty morning run-
lake water rolls off the bow
oars dipping in sync
–
fingers entwined-
a light rain
ripples

time draws to a close-
I hold his hand, helping him
walk across this bridge
–
a pale horse-
the onus
of these souls

standing on the bridge
cold wind blowing through his coat
patiently waiting
–
a lover’s kiss-
the river opens
to greet the sea

a flash of silver
swimming in place, lingering
against the current
–
buffeted and battered-
leaning
into the wind

the frayed rope, broken
bubbles breaking the surface
of the swimming hole
–
sweet spring air-
off a chestnut branch
a stout rope swings