History
By onemorething
- 624 reads
If we listen hard enough
the river has its own language,
it speaks in torrents
until we are as much the water,
subsumed, as if it was our own arm
that reaches for the sea.
Or until we are the birch trees,
unbranched, consumed,
our weaker limbs wrenched
and flung to the flood
which muddied, harries us
along the clouded swirl and eddy
of an unsettled history that has woken
from its sleep of sediment,
and so now we listen, as quiet as quakers,
in the long wait for its words.
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Where I live, we are waiting
Where I live, we are waiting for the river to peak tomorrow, so this chimes very well with my thoughts! I've also just been reading one of Peter Ackroyd's very evocative 'London' novels, where the river of history is a continuing presence, so again this struck a real chord. And of course it's a lovely piece all by itself!
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flung to the flood
flung to the flood
which muddied, harries us
along the clouded swirl and eddy
of an unsettled history
I like this image very much, scary and cold.
The idea of us not understanding the language of rivers made me think of how differently we treat them. Only a few seconds ago in river-time we were offering them golden cups and swords and now they are full of sewage. Not surprising they are grumpy!
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