When the river God decides
to strike his flint and steel of
boulder and water you materialise.
A struck phosphorous spark.
Fletched, knocked, quivered, strained, released;
streaking neon from under the water roots,
the flash in the river’s eye.
An instrument bent
to singular intent
right at the very tip of things.
Incredulous sentry; waiting,
astonished by your own beauty.
Psyche of reflections and fool’s angles
iridescent, statued, hiatus-poised
then falling to smash the mirror
each plunge a moment of splashed
disappearance, a conjured illusion
sheen of silver ballooned vacuum
the sole purpose aimed true;
another silver ingot freed
from the water pinions.
And then when the dusk banks come
creeping down to listen to the weir
shushing the night spirits, you fall down
and then down again to your kaleidoscope
jewelled dream of secrets.
And what secrets you have seen,
relics of old;
and treasures aplenty in the stream.
Pebbled in the slack or jumbled in the race
minnows and dace and Viking gold.