Canto XIII – The River

“I little thought

That I should ever, at any time,

Over the head, speak, mouthless,

Swap speech.”

-        The Husband’s Message

Winding, spitting, medley

of voices crying, gossiping,

murmuring, spitting, singing,

running on and on and on –

this is the anthem of the river,

and she does not crouch at its bank

recording flora and fauna with Darwin’s eye.

Oswald leaps

and splashes deep

into the fray itself – feeling the chill

kiss her palms, tasting the clarity –

rolling it like a sommelier

on her darting, gardener’s tongue –

somewhere, somehow amidst

the wordy bedlam,

you become I,

and that is perhaps

the greatest gift of poetry;

that in the rush and torrent

of a Devon current, I can listen

to the song of myself and know

the efforts of a talented bard

can one day become my own – I who

have also walked those sculptured banks

and shared bread and laughter with friends

and almost slipped on that pebbled bed

when crossing the northern leat –

drawing the weight and wisdom

of heritage waters, those droplets

solid and sweet;

there is muscle in a symphony

which can break and heal,

there is revelation in understanding

I am just another note –

one more ringing spoke –

in Devon’s storied wheel.

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