High up
on the rocky, parched roadside
we see the smooth dark shape
of water, way, way below.
There's no road really
just dry rocky earth to follow down;
like water that finds the easiest path
we dribble down towards the stream, the river.
The river that blasted through the rock,
carved a channel deep, drop by drop
flickered a shaft through stone
and amplified it into an immense ravine.
There's a bus being washed
under the bridge,
They use gravel too,
enthusiastically scrubbing and splashing.
We clamor about a bit.
My husband touched by hawks
as they hover on cliff currents high above.
Nell enthralled by all the color and shape
of sheer rock.
The boys entranced by bugs,
especially the beetle with long long legs
to hold him up off the ground,
the parching ground.
Dust on my finger tips,
my face,
wind...
Go down to wash in the river.
ebb and flow with the sound
of water wearing down rock
and splashing on my feet.
poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab
