A hanging sheet of streaming rush,
a ghyll, some other term there used,
for falling water in cascade,
forced torrent chute from tower height,
with cloud from cauldron swirl in mix.
While wet and ready in the rift,
we feel the need for further skin,
though waterproof the derm we wear,
as born from breaking waters’ surge,
why do we hanker, oilskin ware?
Behind the curtain, drown of moss,
swing pendula and bouncing stems
who’ve found their rhythm, met the terms,
botanic garden on the rocks,
a microclimate, shrouded life.
A memory of life enclosed,
quite undisturbed save what prevails;
unlikely veil of thunder gush,
down to the vale, white water calms,
and meadow, growth belies above.
As pray for pastures, quiet, green,
still paths where guarded through the strains,
from birth through life to death in time,
nearby sustained the power of force,
and those who learn, adapt, maintain.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Poetry Potion.
His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/