When winter comes the mountain
Warms itself with a blanket of snow
That shines pure and white
By day and turns silver by night.
The first heat of summer
And the mountain sweats
Little streams that run together
To make the great river.
Does the river feel sad to leave the heights?
It rushes in thoughtless joy
Bounding over rock, gushing through chasms
Unaware of what lies ahead.
Not knowing that men will worship
And wash. Plunging in feet, clothes
Vessels as they clean themselves
To dirty the river.
They will throw flowers and rubbish
And flood her with factory waste
Choke her with plastic and
Half burned bodies. Men will
Build walls to change her course
And smother her with brick and stone.
River that comes rushing to the plains
What will man do if turning wise
You choose to run under the earth
Hidden from sight as other rivers have in centuries past?
Parched by heat , racked by thirst
Will men learn real worship then?
The rain watches me as I drive
Car window just that bit down
So I can feel the cool smell of wet
In my face
The raindrops come squeezing in
Wanting a ride too?
They come hesitant at first
Seeking their way in little splashes
Then others follow, faster, wetter.
Not all succeed.
Some in their haste crash on the glass
Leaving only a long tear behind
Then suddenly the sun comes
And steams my windows
And blots the wet out!
The night is wild,
She dances hair flying tongues of fire,
Her hands coloured red,
Her feet beating out the rhythm
I watch her dance her frenzy,
Clothed in virginal calm.
Only the red stain on my skin
Betrays the smouldering within.
Word by word, piece by piece
Minute by minute, thought by thought
I work at it.
The jigsaw will not quite fit
There are, I tell myself, so many missing
Moments lost, emotions wasted, thoughts
Words unsaid, feelings unspent; losing themselves in the ether
Where will I find them all to make this
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