Spring Rain 18-01-2025
Spring; the ice is melting,
trickling from mountain glaciers, racing towards
the vast ocean.
The moon gleams from high above the river,
cradling the tides in its silver quiver,
watching frothing waves chase the fleeing water
like a mother watching her two playful daughters.
Swift currents skirt a field of flowers abloom,
invisible but for their blossoming perfume,
their petals white in a ghostly costume.
They feel not the icy flakes, nor the winds that keep them awake;
all that's left is the moon.
Who sees her for the first time tonight?
Who did she first see when she first shone?
Generations have flown by, each different to the last,
yet the moon appears unchanged, steadfast.
Who does she wait for?
Clouds, darkened by the skies, drift past,
their silhouettes radiating uncertainty so vast.
Whose husband sails tonight?
And where lie his beacons of love; his light?
Though they cannot see or hear each other's prayer,
they call to the moon that shines with care
on the sailors cap and bedside mirror
uniting them beneath argentine slivers.
An albatross soars across the bay,
forever casting its shadow on the rippling waves.
Last night we dreamt of thawing lands;
suddenly spring is slipping through our hands.
The river rushes, like time wasting away
as the moon slips beneath the ocean spray,
sinking our yearnings of home
that sail on its reflection
and scattering willow leaves
across the water in all directions.
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