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It starts, as always, at the top,
it’s a flow, a flood,
a torrent, trickle or drop;
coursing hard and metallic through your blood.
Drops of water, liquid and elusive;
hard as rock, soft as satin;
each little moment - thoughts and feelings inclusive,
fleeting: lost in translation.
Some call it Gravity; it’s that massive drop
to land head first, bloodied
and battered, so far from the top;
twisting and turning, emotionally bruised; indeed
so utterly damaged, one dare not breathe
for fear of choking on one’s own grief!
Hey, it’s just water,
a natural delight. Not some funereal wreath.
Energy is quantum, it cannot last.
Its fury is in the moment.
Pain is transitory; it loses its blast;
leaving one numbed and bewildered: torment.
It’s a force of nature, our waterfall;
taking account of no one, nothing - other than its own need.
So, I write, my words surge and tumble, all
in vain? Not so, indeed
for frothing and throbbing intent: energy unreleased
on jagged rocks that stand resistant;
the water splashing and swirling
gives up its fury, in that instant.
In the end, comes the calm
waters so deep, so good for hiding
one’s grief; those uncried tears, a balm
that for the moment, it’s worth confiding.
The Sun rises and sets,
the water drops from great heights;
one gives, one gets
a fright, or a delight.
Les Bush
Copyright, 20 March 2013
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