When I crave the clean
of pristine
what’s in reach
is just an urban creek. . .

it is the mountain rush
that makes me blush,
even with the slowest flow
of living water
merely a little dip of toe
or head’s top dunk
to let my soul
imbibe a little chilling shock
that may a flowering harvest reap. . .

the city creek that slinks
slow to the nearby
estuary, bay
and wider western sea
is in its parched year summer mode
and scarce a fresh live thing
right now does lend abode. . .
it’s not the place
for skin or tongue
to slake its thirst. . .

I’d maybe choose to drain
my ordinary faucet
or the grid-tied water main
first. . .

To know the wonder
of high days
clothed in a nearer sun
hugged in the love
of friendly humans
and nights of peace
awash in stars
so close to self
and universal Truth
at times close
to being way too deep
to take,

then to come back home,
means to face a slew
or zoo
of quite familiar
but brand-new looking beasts
that I must tame,

for, though,
at home,
the city’s sounds impose
a rhythm like a relentless metronome. . .
and a different sort of comfort reigns,
loom again
the customary pains
that after trek to peak
are felt in quite different vein
so they cannot be accepted
as the static status quo,
and push battling shove
cannot reprise
the usual circles
that they circumscribe,
for I
and they
will never be the same,

and in the end,
I’ll learn
these beasts and pains
to happily befriend,
as I advance
into a whole new level
of my game.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry, Seasons, Spring and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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