I am drawn to the river;
The magnetic pull of moving water
Speaks of surging winter torrents, rain
Swollen weirs, power unstoppable that
Demands obeisance. I watched a hundred
Logs flow passively to some uncontrolled end.
I realise that I am such a log, because the axe
Will fall unexpectedly. I am an atom
Borne along heedlessly, unknown like the grey men
That river and bridge-borne surge up the hill to the
Banks and leaden-decked institutions, and void of
Significance, are empty buses returning to their depot.
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I have come to the river;
Here in yellow-hot summer, the water
Slops slowly, turbidly, the only movement
On a still landscape plain. Here is the one
Place of ease and rest. The sun too fierce
For activity, so we must lie and admire
The scene of peace, as golden life spreads
Across these waiting fields. We did nothing;
Except the yielding of giving ourselves to
A flowing power that bore us so that we became
Substantial, even passing through the obdurate
Shadow; now we lie, serene, held safe forever.
© 2001 Philip Kemp