Unceremoniously, the river flows,
contradicted by its vestment of sparkles
over smooth shoulders; the impression grows
in its perfect measure down from the dark hills
losing gradient to civilise the plains,
held in constancy its consistent gains.
To the lazy eye it is plenitude
in motion, comparable history,
unimpressed by events, the interlude
out-doing the surface splash, mystery
more evident than fact, it roundly sums
like religion, it is what it becomes.
It is, all said and done, a statement divine
locked in perpetuity; what does show
we can but see, for to the mind’s incline
its humble face is water, and its flow
in simple shallows to its central gauges
reveals in parallel time it engages.
But held in stillness time is toothed like cogs
in a time-piece, whence does this river’s flow
become its wave theory, the route unclogs
of minutes and hours, where it would go
we follow, not assuming some far end
for it has none, in wide waters to blend.