The Waterfall
Bubbling along, tumbled tree trunk toying,
The happy stream plays hide and seek
With shade and sun, enjoying
The memories of stones that speak
Of mountain side and hill and plain,
Whence they were washed by winter rain.
Deep, silent trout-tickling pool,
Is where in depths begins the birth,
(Chattering stream, now calm and cool).
From solid rock of fertile earth.
Hastening on, the waters pour,
Foam-flecked, towards the distant roar.
Tumbling, teetering; should they lunge?
They seem to halt before the abyss,
Gathering strength, they headlong plunge,
Majestic torrent of power that’s bliss.
My eyes are wide, my ears seem helmed,
All sound by roaring overwhelmed.
Thunder; mist rising - sodden smoke,
Below whirls a centrifugal scour
Pulling all within its yoke,
Powdering granite with its power.
The towering torrent, slowing now
Gently resumes its placid flow.
Through green, daisy-painted field,
Brushing bovine lips drinking their fill.
In this gentle flow, what lies concealed?
The miller knows: The power to drive his mill.
With us the same - Passions to the void may hurl,
Peace and strength hide beyond that whirl.
© Lionel Owen 2009
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