Held in the crook of the river's arm
I wait and watch moments
morph into aqueous
ribbons, shimmering tresses
and braids. Serpents coil
on themselves like Hippocrates'
icon, sheen of reflexive scales;
time, inundated, flexes to liminal,
structures dissolving; strictures wane;
aquifers swallow the hours, the days;
freshets are oracles, grief erased.
Glad as a bird,
reconfigured, revived,
I watch the waters bask, elide,
their eluence drinking
chimaeras, time, into serene
primordial mind.
In the crook of the river s arm
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110083103688
Свидетельство о публикации №110083103688
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