To marvel at the water's edge

More frequently do I arrive at the river

to marvel at the water’s edge,

to walk against the current, or to walk with the flow,

to sit on a rock contemplating the wondrous day,

to hear burbling,

to meditate how deep reflections of trees are

with upside-down trunks playing trickery,

causing my mind to think that the course of water runs so deep,

when in reality

the river bed is not much more than a metre below the surface

on which leaves float,

where here and there

a surprise splash of frog or fish breaks the quiet surface tension

between wetness and air.

Towards the evening sun of October

look up high

to the bright blue sky and watch a distant plane paint its path,

look down low

to see the ball of heat reflected with sparkling, twinkling, diamante rays.

A small breeze buffets newly grown poplar shoots arising from old trunks cut down last Autumn before Winter 
to make way for Spring growth.

Passers by with dogs,

elderly arm in arm,

young in a different embrace,

family scenes,

solitary ones,

all enjoy pleasure from this garden.

I alone, learn to be alone, walk alone at my own speed,

having to wait for no one else but only me alone in my world,

not lonely,

yet sense aloneness

as I frequently arrive at the river to marvel at the water’s edge.

Evp

October 2011