In Fluid Motion

Life: it is but my contingent journey.

The river stands still not one minute,

Her sympathy is but a fluke,

Burbling to the rush, the mimic,

Mimic of humankind; her only link

Is the end, the ocean of another place.

The river remains, in her way, teasing


Synapses where sense cannot see

The ebb of life flowing onwards;

Their beds are man-made,

Made for man to wander in slumber,

Eyes of glass, windowless, bare-sighting

An optical world, illusion drenched in mist.


Aroma there of a crimson fade,

Dripping into what seas of sapphire

Harbour the passenger’s secrets:

Not walking, merely running,

Only beside the vista for a bead of time,

When all that can be done


Is to trace the silk amongst the sky,

Dewy canvas above and below,

As if silence knows, is painted with the

Days’ emotions, night’s reclusion.

Yet the river knows of vanity,

Her own cycle imminent;


She laps and laughs, watching them

Treading trails of pebbles,

Blindly following the guides along the sand;

Bodies reflective only in the foam that shows

What is internal-timepiece concealed:

Eyes of the contingent, visions of the traveller.

The End

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