I’m not sure I could take you to the source
I pick the river up there, where it goes through the woods,
where the banks are steep.
From there, it runs through the valley,
below the spruce trees,
on past the mill,
under the bridge with the awkward bend,
and then meanders through meadows.
The cows stand belly deep in summer grass.
The path follows the river –
coming closer, moving away,
a weaving dance of water and tarmac,
and if you look closely, if you hover somewhere in the air above,
you will see two girls in endless adolescent conversation,
strong limbs moving them over the iron bridge,
laughter rising above the yellow gorse.
They are walking to town.
They will cross the river again,
walk down the quay, where there might be boats
from faraway places with faraway names,
setting them dreaming of future adventures;
past the square where the kids without purpose
hang out on drizzly evenings;
past the shop that sells everything except happiness.
At the steps, they’ll step into the boat,
the narrow boat, hardly a boat at all
and they’ll row themselves onward,
following the river,
moving with the river,
carried by the river
towards the sea.
It’s all about lines today – a line as a moment, intact in itself. I’ve a tendency to chop at lines, so this was a good – if uncomfortable – exercise for me. It’s also come out really long. I guess the point of this is to be pushed, and to experiment, not necessarily to produce a work of staggering genius.