Fay Slimm.

Rivering.

 

 

Rivering.

 

Oh watery minion of past existence, rivering subtly
those potentized remnants of millions whose
life-happenings earned no award.
That stored weight of muted dynamics, fluid sounds
of lament or contentment went unseen, yet
each held its own minute record.

Deep-level eavesdroppers grasp liquid signatures on
rocky stones as chromosome cries preserved
thru’ suspension still effervesce.
Kingfisher bird pauses a moment stares head lowered
and hears in pool’s depth whispering omens
rendered to murmuring essence.

Furry travellers busily speeding for food first reel then
halt at half-felt inaudible signs of experience
floating in welt of turbulence.
Stoat, Vole and Otter detect in watery breath snatches
of contact by mere discernment.

Why then do we not catch river-speak with ears tuned
to legacy’s wisdom wistfully left over from
yesteryear-folk becoming aware.
That mystical intellect found in the river’s potent spirit
taught by listening, flows with knowledge
which we can learn if we dare.