Lost.
I start as a brook
in the 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
in ripples and sliding hurries
over stony pebbles, breaching
ridged beds where frothing in bubbles
I rush to mingle with deeper waters
but stop to chatter under low willows
banked in sidings before altering
my tune to a baritoned river.
Then no more warbling in creeks
for me so bowling slower I walk to greet
other waters converging like tenors in
choric excitement, drowning me
with loud ocean-voiced roars belonging
to power, wide-mouth basso eases
then my weak trills into deep-sea song.
Yet I will ever
know myself
as a brook
that springs
from hill-height
dashing between
granite\'s 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,
forgot the soft solo
of mountain\'s clear creek
in that deafening
fortissimo as ocean
knows only choral singing.