To you a mountain chases out her soils
through the lost solidity of winter clothes
I see, ribbon-tumbled, these streams and wider rivers
across these lands, where my feet float over the green.
The rushers still in awe, on their approach to you,
their mouths, their last youth union with the earth
tide-embraced, those fresh children,
ushering the expanse of anonymity wandering
an intake of salted sand, and peace
at this, their mature quest.
Perhaps I am among them
as I walk the water's mark.
I am the mermaid, the siren, soon
happily I would go into these waves
and creature myself within your sheltering
those tributoried churns, and drift
of martyred shells, they hasten me,
I am exposed to need, and recognition
of the horizoned line beyond.
Surely I will swim, though land-bound yet,
from the water's mouth,
and see my land from another's view.
c) 1999-2000 Kamla
Mahony
|
