river of love
Gently, generously spoken for.
Everything streaming outwards and away –
a river from its source, the sun's radiation –
in all directions at once.
Things move round other things.
Sometimes there are collisions.
o
No matter what kind,
or the quantity of junk chucked
into it, a river has the ability to purify itself
or be purified.
A conduit streaming outwards and away,
everything streaming through us.
Each in their tiny
room a cubic
second in volume.
o
Of all the directions you could take,
this one puts you
right on the spot, first on the scene:
the victims mute round their wrecked cars
looking down through the road's
crown of shattered glass.
o
The path flows through us, love is a river,
the river of love. The landscape
bends past our brows.
Each on their tiny
sleigh of time, each in their millisecond
compartment which another
sometimes enters, sometimes enters.
From Lazy Wind Poems (Auckland: AUP, 2003)
© Graham Lindsay
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