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Michael McGuire
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The Ghost of a River
You can trace her skeletal remains that still whisper of water and woe,
Just a dry tear now it once cried rain and rainbow, You can see the polished and sculpted bed of stone,
And imagine the artist that carved and caressed this bone,
You wonder on the landscape; did she once bathe in this dust,
Did the flow of her milk deliver unction for this rust.
And if you stay thru the stillness of your night findings,
You can hear the ghost of a river.
Only the river knows what time it is and winds no mortal clock,
She now has passed her wisdom to the senseless reason of the rock,
Improvised hieroglyphics and babblings that sound no more but can only be read,
Yes this her tombstone for this is where she would bury her dead,
Now this lonesome unanswered wind is all that's left of the current she used to pull,
She used to drive like a vein of diamonds into the night when the moon was full.
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And if you can strain the silence of the weary stars from your pulse,
You can hear the ghost of a river.
This print of her unmannered glory still moves all who take the sight,
In the windings and wanders still live her lust fed plight,
And you dream on the colors of her depths and shallow's-divine,
And you wonder if her waters ever flowed with lava and wine,
In antediluvian rains she was drenched; the true soul of time,
Not clock driven as man; much more like an engine of rhyme.
If you stop all thought and subordinate all senses to wonder,
You can feel the ghost of a river.
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