River runs

Jane Dougherty Writes

These days fly by on ragged wings, crow-black,

On winds that blow beneath bleak northern suns,

And once-dry stream with rushing water runs

In autumn flood; banks sink and branches crack.

You look behind at all that ran before,

The bright light dancing at the jetty’s end

That shone for someone else; here half-lights blend,

And in their changing depths lies something more.

It ran away, the past, and now it seems

The river’s strewn with dead things, yet the light

Shows water washes pebbles dazzled bright;

The river never dies, no more do dreams.

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