The mighty river
In the peaceful flow of the mighty river,
the weave and the bind and the ebb,
and the blind belief that everything is,
with the beat and the drum of the hum
of the world in its filigree greenery;
the azure skin of the sky reflected,
drawn in the eye of a sea gazing back,
where white gulls swoop, in line and gust,
seek each other out in separation, the gulf
and the trough, and the arc playing light
in a rainbow, splashing and out-spilling
purest colour, deepest sound, aching now;
it seeps into the sun-danced grove below,
where towering trees plant roots and join hands,
glistening bark sucking in the morning dew
to be as others be; the sum of life charging,
plunging through ratted undergrowth; the dank,
damp scents of the lupid earth beat a tempo,
its heart echoing across the vast forest floor,
a mish-mash smash of cracking twigs, gluey moss,
an emerald carpet unrolled like a speaking tongue;
ants hold up their trophies high, sticky antennae
collecting every perfect sound cast out on the wind;
light flickers, transpires in all the yellow upturned leaves,
skinny stems gyrating in the tranquil breeze,
where bouncing bumble bees hollow out sound,
honeying the day in the sweetest shower,
carrying the circle onwards, green engaged,
as the days turn into days, and nights breathe
into nights, and so it all revolves, the great
turning, in light, in pitch, and the in-between,
and life reflected sparkles for the passenger alone,
becomes, ignites, bringing you back to you.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, April 14, 2023
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