River

Dec 6 2019

So few colours we have named.

As if the rest

were consequential.

As if the world

was all primary colours;

no hues or pastels,

no dappled, palette, watered-down.

Yet every day, a different shade of blue,

according to the alchemy

of overcast and sun,

how fast and deep

the wild river runs.

All the subtleties of green

in the cool dark forest

it reflects and absorbs,

the muddy silty browns

of its downriver course.

Now, congealed

there is black ice.

And white, where it's egg-shell thin,

as if flash-frozen froth

had been caught in the moment.

And where it's lightly smoked glass

swept clear of snow

I can see the water gurgle

beneath the glazed surface,

a neutral grey

that uncannily conveys

its surging swirling motion.

All winter it flows,

liquid, somehow

and inexhaustible.

An infinity of shades, yet colourless,

reflective

transparent

immersive.

But still, so unimaginably blue;

in a hot dry summer's

limpid light

a still azure pool.