Sacred Waters
Water was sacred
either as a shower
squirted out of a sprinkler
on the backyard lawn
to run through and cool us
on hot summer days
or splashed from a font
when making the sign
of the cross as we entered
St Mary's for Sunday mass.
It was more so
when held within the banks
of the Port Adelaide River,
its tidal flow a pulse
that pumped through
the city's very heart.
It was my Jordan and Ganges
though in grandeur and size,
its upper reaches was little
more than a creek clogged
with mangroves and mud.
Its main channel was dredged
and widened for ships.
The river nurtured me,
fed my appetite for myth
and wonder and carried
my history in its dark,
oily flow. I both loved
and loathed it for holding
me to a mortgage.
It took a lifetime to pay off.
I still long to go back
and stand on its banks,
bathe my feet in its waters -
make peace - return
one more time to what
was once my home.
Though now,
I doubt I will ever see
the Port River again.
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