The Poetry Kit MAGAZINE
By David Swan
Tired and brown the river winds down
through mudflats and derelict houses.
Its steady stream gazed upon
by lovers , thieves
and untainted children.
Its water courses through cities and towns
and abandoned waterways.
Sounds of modern distractions
held back by un-tamed brambles.
These ugly banks hate clean living rooms
and tidy shelves .
The river reflects hands held to faces
and absorbs the tears of young men
returning from Afghanistan.
Sometimes the shadows of flies
as is the nature of things.
The river runs for miles and miles
and passes no judgment.
All are welcome to gaze upon
Its hypnotic surface and try
to fix an eye upon its movement.
But the river moves on from mountain to sea
and it has no story to tell.
The Heart of it
was in the stone.
But I can’t hear anything.
I can’t see anything.
It offers me no teachings.
Just sits there.
Round, smooth, the weight of an Angel,
a symbol of true peace.
It’s illusory solidity confirmed,
by Scientists and Buddhists alike.
It’s silent sound vibrates from the centre,
the endless cycles of the universe.
A never ending gyroscopic descent
into the heart of matter