Flowers

Silver threads slalom down hillsides, Haunts of larks and Munro baggers. Merging into burbling brooks, They slide as one,frothing Over smooth rocks where sheep daintily step. Little bursts of thunder Signify cataracts ahead, Boiling white water. Greedily the broad sweep of the river Embraces and swallows its feeders. Now the passage towards the sea begins Through towns and cities Where its strong silent flow Passes barely noticed Amid the busy human traffic Drowned in their private griefs, Unless it bursts its banks To intrude upon those lives. At last it washes into the welcoming ocean With whom it will share its salty tales.