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.
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