River Song (Poetry)

Beside the Usk at close of day I watched the mayflies skim,
the grasses bending in the breeze and twilight growing dim,
thoughts gone with the current’s pull — I knew its fluency
and heard the song it sings to stones like liquid poetry

soothing, lulling every ear till all seemed hushed and calm,
the silence spreading field to field enveloping each farm
along the valley’s drowsy curve where tributaries meet —
streams emerged from underground, their voices trickling sweet,

chorusing symphonic themes — a waterfall of notes
issuing a lyric tale from melancholy throats,
the wild brown trout rose up to hear the story of their birth,
black mountains learned their history, absorbing all, and Earth

listened like a child entranced to legends loved so well
it was as though the world was locked inside the river’s spell.
Then all the tunes rolled round again in barrel organ time,
water picked up melodies and whirled them round in rhyme,

and carried every coracle — each dream that stayed afloat —
in shadowy flotillas, grey imaginary boats
drifting where the currents tug, swaying rhythmically
and keeping ancient spirits high until they join the sea.