A River In-Between
Feb 6 2008


I point upstream
pushing against the flow,
losing ground the moment I stop
— like a fish who must move to breathe.

The water drops as I probe higher,
and at every fork
I steer for the widest branch,
seeking the undiluted head-waters
where this great river began.
Where I find boggy soil,
and jagged tree-trunks, broken-off,
and ancient stumps, waterlogged
— the earth saturated, overflowing.
There is the stench of rot;
swamp gas
and decomposing matter.

A drop of water here
knows nothing of ice-cold rapids,
making silky pillows over polished rocks.
Nor plunging cataracts,
atomized into all the colours of light.
Nor fish
flashing in crystal clear pools.

Yet somehow, it knows the inexorable pull of the sea,
warm salt water and sluggish bottom-feeders
a thousand miles downstream.