The dreamy vole sniffs the air then takes to the river
Pushing the limpid water into v-shaped silken waves
As it makes for the far bank.
The River Wye sings a solitary song in the steep valley,
Flowing over worn smooth ancient rock, sometimes tumbling,
Sometimes racing and splashing, slapping the shore
With a dull muddy thud. Here on the bend where
The stripped trees over-hang, the water moves
With the motion of sunken dream, gathering hazy
Reflections to its surface like fragments of old film.
The rain-soaked mist clings to the river and coats the trees
With a damp veil which drips down with a soft plop,
Like water from a stalactite, into the reflections,
For a second distorting their images. Above the valley
Jackdaws and crows send their calls echoing
Through the muffled autumn stillness,
Soft with decaying leaves and sodden moss.
The loneliness of the moment sets sharp focus
My perception; a shiver runs through me, an ache,
An awareness so strong and so intuitive, that tears
Mingle with the mist – tears of rage and joy.
Questions unanswered flood like a current
Into my mind, tipping over the banks of my ignorance
And cascading into a void of confused sympathy and guilt.
As the vole reaches the far bank, this small harmless
Endangered creature, I realise I too am a tiny voice
In the wilderness, a single song in the universe,
Yet I marvel at the gift of giving and the spirit of the moment.
Then the vole is gone, disappearing into some hidden
Underground tunnel leaving only tiny, busy footprints
In the soft mud. I turn down the track to the old mill,
No longer sad, but feeling privileged to be part
Of the eternal cycle, no matter how tainted.
