AT THE GORGE

Below the rapids

the river runs as swiftly

as when I was young

and went over the old bridge,

long since fallen.

Fallen trunks of trees

bath in the dark waters;

I think of the years

gone, yet still there,

upstream in time.

I have known these

steep hill-sides

before this road

started to snake through.

I have known them,

like they must

have known my forebears,

eking out a living and dying

around the gorge, going

without much fuss

with the dark waters

roaring in the gorge

when the time was

to go. Yet, even they

are still there,

in past years, upstream

in time, watching

the waters rush downstream,

watching the years

bath them in its dark waters.

26.10.2017