it is not easy,  waiting
when time cannot be grasped
and mortality looms closer

voices echo briefly
never able to wait
long enough

to remember the rose
when the petals
are gone
it is not easy

there was the road
wide and never
ending, with
time enough to spare

when the music slows
and the door to the waiting room
is closed
it is not easy

and the river rolls on




as a river
its origins in the falling of rain in far mountains
so our lives begin
small streams running ever onwards
gathering growth from storms and clouds
until they become full in flood
powerful, unstoppable, wreaking good or evil
spreading on the plains
in braided relationships
until they fall at last
down that final cataract
over the river bar
into the waiting arms of the sea