Myself.
I start as a brook
in the far distant hills
which beginning
in droplets clinging
together passes through
rills between tiny ridges, spills
down small land-slides, tumbles in
miniature waterfalls to join streamlets
as ripples then sliding I hurry
over stony-sharp pebbles, breaching
ridged beds where frothing in bubbles
rushing I mingle with deeper
waters but stop to chatter under low
willows before altering
my tune to a baritoned river.
Then no more warbling in creeks
for me so bowling slower I walk to greet
other voices converging like tenors in
choral excitement, drowning me
out with ocean-toned roars belonging
to power as wide-mouth basso
eases my weakly trills into sea-songs.
Yet I will ever
know myself
as a brook
that springs
from hill-height
dashing between
granite nooks
and crannies
to delight
in brimming
over rocky beds
where my hum
is welcomed
by mossy pebbles
and where birds come
to drink and wet
feet and feathers
in my warm shallows
before I roll on
having to settle
for large water duets
and lost then
my previous whispers,
not forgot tho\' soft
solo of mountain\'s clear
creeks in such fortissimo
as an ocean knows
only bottomless singing
loaded with lots
of littlest notes.