Water Works

April 18 2016

Spring thaw

and water thunders downstream,

pummelling rock

tumbling over fallen trees.

Boiling eddies, flecked with froth

circle

like rabid dogs.

Freezing spray soaks the shore,

a locomotive roar

drowning out everything.

In paper/scissors/rock

you’d think granite indestructible.

But molecule by molecule, water works;

smoothing, polishing, shaping curves,

carving into bends

scouring out the bottom.

The power of sun

to evaporate, sublimate, elevate,

lifting water

making it rain.

An unstoppable gush;

pent-up,

like anger, that festers too long.

Who knew

the force of light

could reshape rock?

Or that such glorious power

and terrible beauty

could co-exist?

But the true magnificence

is how indifferent nature is;

no anger, or retribution

no vain self-consciousness.

And how insignificant I am,

keeping well back

gaze transfixed.

As the river runs

inexhaustibly.

As glistening rock

stands its ground.

I shamelessly stole terrible beauty from the Yeats poem Easter, 1916. Or, more charitably, one might say “paid homage.”

Although “stole” may not be as bad as it sounds. Because, as Picasso is widely (and erroneously?) quoted as saying, “good artists borrow, great artists steal”.  ;-)