A poem by GEORGE DENNIS.
Nights of tranquillity, she stays awake listening for
One hill-top source,
A single trickling upon a wind caught for her from the
spring; some vital first motion.
Silent under thin linen veils, slipping from her shoulders,
Undulating as she turns,
Restless; slight frame traced in sheets so cool
Upon her skin.
Stirring desire for the sounds of deeper time rushes
Through her entirety,
Seeping out with gentle murmurs and supple movements of
The head.
Another night of worshiping the draft, tentative tracer of
Her neck,
That too often was an empty messenger.
The river stretched out curling like a laxed thread and
Had often
Whispered into her as she ambled home at dusk.
But in the richer texture
Of night, she yearned for those initial melodies sung with the urban
Birth, the continents erosion,
Sung before man’s hand first grasped at fertile soil.
Bodily it was,
That yearning to be made aware she was fleeting,
The awe of hearing
The pebble of her soul smoothen, to be conscious as
Her sharp edges
Are worn and washed away, her topography left anew.
When those curtains lifted
Inviting a breeze in that touched gently her face’s
Muted angles,
She would cease to breath, awaiting that definite dropping.
Then, knowing she was
Not blessed that hour, would exhale in answer to the wind.
Simple ripples from distant outcrops; sleep encroaches,
Her eyes will close
Like they will upon some gorse coated summit.
There she’ll invite
Water’s delicate first rhythms, the first and last drops.
Only then could she cease
To grasp out in the dark, allow herself some
Tears, mixing
With the earliest motions of the river that now
Patters the backs of her hands.
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