I miss my river
grey though she
ebbs and flows
slowly lapping
with a kind
of resignation
as she dwells
upon her glories
past and famed
but still
I miss her sounds
her accent rare
and noises off
banks north and south
the songs she sang
and those not sung,
her lack of airs
despite her graces
which other
grander courses
of well renown
present, these
only make her
feel right
and me feel right
in turn


I am inseparable from water
not the clear Indian Ocean
or those waves
which bathe
far-flung archipelagos
for me even the mountain brooks
are strangers seldom met,
my kin is born of the dark rivers
diesel tinted mirrors
for greying skies
that cut through these badlands
and carve out the wastelands
on their way to the sea.


I am in mind of unclear water
no crystal brook nor singing stream
but sediment of greying waves
rolls across the pools of dreams
unceasing combers in their run
swell and surge with crashing thoughts,
and like old kings who tides commanded
all calming efforts stand for nought,
so on this shore I am resigned
to accept the ebb and flow
of unclear water that is my mind
and have my thoughts run where it goes