The River

The river was high
Lord and passing surveyor
of Earth and sky,
placid in peace
knowing and majestic
through bowing trees.

Ancient host of the living
glorious in depth,
where the moonlit otters galloped
and solid silver fish leapt.

The river is low
in pools and over bars,
slow moving, calm
under stone faced moon,
the blood red sands
and fiery eye of Mars.

The racing clouds
bring fresh showers,
to anoint and cleanse
the mud and scars. 

Where the crowned Crayfish
turns the stones,
of a rocky kingdom overthrown.

The willow weeps 
and may not stay,
for the birds that flee
from the flowers that fade.

The east wind mourns
the river´s agonies in death,
and the rain wets the stones
where the river bled.