Rivers

Childhood

A young river is a bit like you and me,
if our young days we can see;
un-wondering things profound,
gurgling, flowing, skipping – unbound
too impulsive for poetry, too untutored for song
too blithe to know right from wrong.

Youth

The hills are a memory upriver,
as our years - arrows lost from a quiver;
a course, just an easy flow
too fast for rooted things, too slow for those on the go
relatively poetic, very free
like the craggy faced, shaggy haired reflection of me.

Death

Now, its end of the river, a time to drop the load
for us too, it's someday the same road;
ahead is blue that drowns even killer brown
Godspeed to the depths that do drown.