Waters
If you could picture me now, and here, by these familiar distant
waters, you might fasten on my journey, those
incalculable dark miles, think of the strangeness: these ghost
gums, ageless against a perfect blue sky,
rosellas swooping, to double their colours beneath the glittering surface –
not guessing the true difference falls somewhere else,
lies with the waters themselves, that must, like words, be ever changing,
ever moving on, and haven’t we always known this,
how we compel neither waters, nor words, to meanings they do not
consent to - how even these must dissolve, at last,
with the moments they imbue? It is what time should have taught
us, that there are no fixed or determined
truths, how the years do not advance us to some ultimate golden
knowledge, or last blaze of enlightenment;
what we have are these moments – trembling, floating through space
and time - each as precious as the last and the next:
the pasts we mourn,
the words we borrow,
the waters we sit by.
Copyright ©
A lost Poet
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