I found this old poem of mine just now in a notebook and it made me think about the connection between water and words.
The Stream.
6:20pm Tuesday November 10th 1994,
Newlands Valley, Cumbria, UK.
Who's there by the stream?
I can hear them talking, but when I look all I can see are the dark pebbles standing against the light.
Yes, I hear them again, though in turning, those half cought words dissolve back into the dancing waters. Is this the stream speaking? Is there more than a half heard word in the bubbling? Do the rocks have a voice? The yellowing leaves that drift by and spin into what? Into where?
Do all these speak? Who may, How may we hear? That in the listening their speaking may not unheard or unheeded pass into the night.
The Stream.
6:20pm Tuesday November 10th 1994,
Newlands Valley, Cumbria, UK.
Who's there by the stream?
I can hear them talking, but when I look all I can see are the dark pebbles standing against the light.
Yes, I hear them again, though in turning, those half cought words dissolve back into the dancing waters. Is this the stream speaking? Is there more than a half heard word in the bubbling? Do the rocks have a voice? The yellowing leaves that drift by and spin into what? Into where?
Do all these speak? Who may, How may we hear? That in the listening their speaking may not unheard or unheeded pass into the night.
b
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