The River

THIS RIVER, a river called Wye,

Starts up here in the mountains and hills,

So clean and cold on a wintry day,

As it leans into and rushes to a Celtic birthplace. 

The place of me. 

This river moves always at the same pace,

The grade of the land unchanging,

Only resistance giving a differing opinion ,

As rocks and drops and barriers amplify its face. 

Trout and herons delight in its purity,

Each seeing something different to dance and dart over,

And walkers with their dogs tread alongside,

Unseeing the others perspective, 

Yet somehow, co-residing with them 

Seeing this now, before the water reaches my birthplace,

I suddenly feel strangely eternal, 

Looking at the river which started before I did,

And all the others who preceded me, and followed. 

This eternal river, before and after,

Without beginning, or so it seems,

Does not imbibe hope but rather suggests.

That what will be, will, in fact be,

And any oxygen, or goodness, or freshness I contain must always be shared. 

Willing or not, it is all I have to give,

So this river runs eternal. 

Poem and Image Copyright 2022 Michael J. Cunningham