Rapids to the quiet horizontal mirror
If there had been rapids, the bubbles in my guts
would have flown again, chasing rip curl and lips,
the visual trip of colour filling the mind
with details from a bird's cinematic eye,
inkling the mind with descriptive affection.
If I had been breached, or had seen Plato -
arranging flowers in a vase he called soul,
I would have jumped off mountains, and by now
all nature in between the legs of the banks
would have been captured postcards sent
one after the other, sliding the torrents
straight into phials, and not letterboxes.
If a damn had taken time to build, stick by stick,
it would have taken less time to set and blow,
and I would have deferred, until all the truth
in the melt had hammered my outstretched arms
with all the force of Nature, shouting down
rebounding taps as two knocks at the door.
If I could not stand any longer, when I knew
the rapids and bubbles in my guts would fly,
chasing rip curl, lips, visual trips; and colour
inkled postcards sent one after the other
with all the wildness that is the honesty
of a free nature - it is right then, that I
would have lit the fuse and taken the rapids
- to the quiet horizontal mirror -
had I sat quite still, until I could not stand
any longer, the beautiful quiet of the shoreline.
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