In the spring of new life high up in the hills,
the rains and moistures form.
They unleash then their torrents on crags and on tarns,
in a powerfully ferocious storm.
A stream is then born, it’s tiny at first,
in it’s pre-embryonical state.
As it spills down the mountain, a trickle at first,
flowing at a calm and sedentary rate.
In the summer of life the stream feels strong,
with the strength to clear it’s own path.
To push boulders and rocks clear out of the way,
mother earth sees it’s fury and wrath.
As this unstoppable wall crashes down to the glen,
the stream has become a vast river.
It surges through valleys with majesty and might,
and doesn’t have time now to dither.
In the autumn of life the river slows down,
expanding out at it’s large waist.
It’s spent all it’s energy, is lethargic and slow,
less speed will now mean much more haste.
As it flows through the land, it feeds all living things,
from the trees to the animals and fish.
It’s as if in the autumn it’s life blood it gives,
as a final despairing last wish.
The winter of life brings the voyage to a close,
as the river creeps up on the coast.
There is salt in the air , the ocean is near,
as the river approaches it’s host.
With it’s last breath of life, it joins estuarial tide,
creating a magical delta.
The Ocean now guards it with fatherly love,
it’s brought home this old river to shelter.