My own personal Flying Carpet
A Poem — homage to an ancient river
Published in
Jan 30, 2024
A crack in the crust — a crevice stuffed with stilled boulders, big as cars.
A weight of ice water presses down — gouging the looming, sentinel strata that keep it channelled — themselves, shrinking back from the relentless onward….
The river gorges downwards –pure white cresting around resisting rock, deep olive black in the calmer flow — and shot with stripes, lemon light, as the sun breaks the canopy of cosseting greenery, protectively arching over…
Awed by such grandeur — silenced by the roar, we minimise our presence.
Standing stock, facing the force — time battering our steadfast legs, we gaze up as pure cerulean blue pigment pours down, filling our empty eyes…
As we no longer feel our feet, we lift lightly, dancing in the January sun.
