Low On the Mountainside

Low on the mountainside, I saw a limpid stream of gold. His subtle whisper carried him along the gorge, Where firs and pines and maples, in the crevice, forge Their nest of eagles sheltered by the rocky mould. I hurried down to watch and chase his rapid pace, Unbound though evanescent as the dew of dawn. A murmur was his voice, shy and withdrawn, Entranced by lazy fog and sprightly grace. “Whither you go today? And whence you come?” I said. “I do not know,” he whispered, “truly, I forgot, Nor need I know at all!” I added: “But why not? Quite surely, you must reckon where and how to tread.” “O, no, dear lad, I am no kin of mortal man! I spring from rock and ripple day and night; I need no whither, whence: indeed, I am the might Which guides all Nature and her clever plan!” “I’ll bear all living things within my wide embrace, And quench their weary thirst until the end of time. I see them grow and live and love and turn to slime; I know men well: they surely vanish without trace!” “You stand and watch me as I rush along, And think that I am transient while you’re firm. But no! Whereas I glide on royally, you squirm And Death, one day, will simply prove you wrong!” “The likes of you need annals, chronicles and books To tell you plainly whither, why and how and whence. But I need neither purpose, strategy nor sense, For I encompass forest, mountain, field and brooks.” “Go forth, now! Take your fleeting chance to breathe and love Before your time is severed by the axe of fate! O, linger not! For men are always slow and late, Despite their boundless thirst for endless life above!” Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com