The River

The river flows like liquid glass,
A mirror of the open sky;
It whispers to the passing trees
In tones so soft that time goes by.

The banks adorned with tangle-brush,
Where willow bends to scent the air,
And every ripple tells a tale
Of timid hearts, and strength laid bare.

O gentle flow, you hold the keys
To secrets of the world of past;
In your embrace the stars reside,
In every drop, eternity cast.

• EJ Pratt