by Shaunna Harper

You can't tell a river which way to run.
Trees flank his cerulean depths
like soldiers,
armed with sticks and leaves,
ever-reaching, seizing,
only to be swept aside.
A river has no place to hide.

He is never the same
when he comes back; a little older,
a little darker, carrying a bit more weight.
He has picked up what is left
by you and me; litter, life,
our human debris.
You can't teach a river how to change.

We sprint at his side like
thirst-driven cattle, desperate
for a look, a taste, a sound.
He makes his way toward the sun.
You can't warn a river he will run out of ground.

Shaunna Harper's picture

Shaunna Harper lives and works in the UK, and is an avid writer of both prose and poetry. She has had poetry, short stories and a novel, Homelands, published.

Last updated December 15, 2014