Friday, 3 February 2012

The Twist in the River by Katherine Pierpoint

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, careless.

Katherine Pierpoint, Truffle Beds (London: Faber and Faber, 1995), 1.


  1. Sorry, Marnie to complain, but - the end of this poem (of mine!) has been cut off, so the poem is reproduced wrongly here and the ending is not as it was printed. The final line should read:
    'And the river runs through its own fingers, careless.'

    1. Don't be sorry, you're right to complain and I apologise. I don't know what happened there and this wasn't on purpose. I'll amend it now. I hope you don't mind your two poems being published here, but I'll delete them, of course, if you disapprove. They're here because I love them and I'd like them to be read.