The Twist in the River
At the clear, beer-coloured and bubbleshot twist in the river –
Every stone a speckled egg spawned in that deep lap,
Every pockmarked, pitted pebble a planet, blindly seeing through its own evolution –
The shallows, and the tall air, are filled with sound and light.
This part of the river expects to be seen, for it has drawn you there,
And the trees, selfless, introduce the sky into your love for the water.
If this place were a person, it would be making up a paper hat while humming –
Entirely self-contained, absorbed yet radiant –
A family moment, appearing normal until years later in retrospect,
When its depth are fully felt, beyond blunt experience.
Underwater, the light thickens slightly but never sets
And the river runs through its own fingers.
Katherine Pierpoint, Truffle Beds (London: Faber and Faber, 1995), 1.