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The River
Just a few miles south of here,
the River skirts our county’s outermost edge.
Weaving her way through a web
of kudzu vineyards,
‘possum playpens
and copperhead tanning beds,
the Saluda takes on the color
of the russet red clay
that frame her banks
and the septic green purée
that seeps from her bowels.
Though this water moccasin freeway flows…seemingly,
from a never ending source,
she’s never quite able to purge herself
from the discretion of man.
I could show you a glen
that once cradled a grove,
nursing her saps
upon the paps of the Earth.
Now into the River
she bleeds from her womb,
as thistle and thorn
is all that she births.
From the reach of a rise
I could point out a ravine
that the River once filled
and a submerged garden
a tender once tilled,
before cresting an old outpost
to explore the new land.
I could escort you to a pseudo-sentinel,
keeping an elusive rival at bay;
a churning caldron of consommé
impersonating a lake.
We could slip into a secluded shantytown,
in a nook
by the crook
of a creek.
Where slackers toke smokin’ flax
under the cover of willows,
and the cares of this life,
like so many liquid dreams,
drift away.
I could guide you to an ole cubbyhole
through a hollow in the hills,
where mashmongers squeezed a living
by the shine of a reeling moon.
Now there’s a hodgepodge of pick-ups
girdling the loins of a gangling road
and a posse of present-day hillbillies,
using the grain to bag the ’bows.
But beyond the shimmering broil
of the blacktop
and the smothering embrace
of the kudzu,
the River finds sanctuary
within the pristine periphery of the Park.
For here the foothills bow
to the majesty of the mountains
and the jangle of the urban jungle succumbs
to the sedation of the serene.
And the River enjoys a relative reprieve
from the encroachment of man.
Waters once ridden,
remnants of a throw-away society,
suspended in the frothy brine;
now reveal with sparkling clarity,
the Creator’s etchings
through the eons of time.
Waters once writhing,
carving her course
through the crumbling clay;
now thunder through a chiseled chasm,
taking no prisoners along the way.
Yet my heart longs for the headwaters,
far-aloft,
to an isolated place.
Where peaks pierce the misty mantle
and clouds cloak their craggy face.
Waters tainted by the toil of man
are drawn towards heaven
to Elohim’s still.
And once refined,
in the veil behind,
are henceforth discharged,
pure as the crucified will.
The highlands are nearest the heavens
and first to receive the rain,
as spring and spill,
runnel and rill,
converge amid the careening hills.
Yet even the purest of water
is all too soon contaminated
when allowed to run randomly
over unyielding ground.
Unlike the champaign clay
that soon gives way,
the headwaters have well-defined boundaries
that will never be annulled;
the moss-enshrouded monoliths
that bear the River’s flow.
And though some boulders loom
as large as a house,
larger still,
is the part unseen,
in the secret place,
where,
into the bedrock
they are fitly framed.
While at a passing glance,
it may appear,
these stones direct the water’s flow.
But a closer study will show;
the River has chosen her own way,
removing what was unanchored,
revealing what is to stay.
Through countless ages come and gone,
these primitive rocks
have insulated the River from siltation
and have faithfully channeled
her refreshing waters
to the parched basin below.
The soothing rhythmic
bubbling and burbling,
gushing and gurgling,
of cold clear water
tumbling over timeworn boulders
casts a mesmeric spell on all passersby.
While the strut of the strider
and the caper of the crayfish
fail to escape the attention
of the patrolling brookie,
who’s more than willing
to accommodate them both.
These waters are forever uttering their discourse.
Their words…have gone out into all the earth.
Their language…understood by every tongue.
And to those who would listen,
they are able to impart and sustain life.
Water is our common bond
and the indispensable fabric of life.
Without it,
life as we know it,
would cease to exist.
The one thing that separates
this veritable garden oasis
from the waste howling wilderness
is the plenteous provision of rain
that graces these slopes ~
~~ Hea
dwaters~
~The Headwaters~ |