River
of Stone
You
cannot beat it
the
run of the river
over
sparkling hillsides
rumples
as tin
shimmering
with Springtime
calling
out from its flow
in
its rhythm and bones
the
bed of the river
as
much of its soul
as
the streams and forks of parting
water
awash in the eye
and
water washes its light around
bouncing
from the clouds
knuckling
down the earth
feeding
the maw of sea
and
falling from space
in
the heart
and
on the roofs of an old town
rain
keeps us united
and
free
to
run as we walk and walk far as we see
scurrying
with umbrellas
newspapers
and
hats you almost scarcely see
like
something out of Dick Tracy
the
occasional Emerdale Farm
nods
to the market town
but
most are hooded
beanied
and baseball
the
roar of the crowd
still
the doff their edge to the slant of rain
precipitation
reins
and
we return
the
river
to
the course that moved us
to
notice these things
all
lit in gold
all
remembered and caught
by
the bronze
trickling
swell of the stoned imagination
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