Rivers

Beneath white bodies, Shadows pulsate light, Where eyes see continents, Spawn and churn in the clock; Twist and wind through gnarled banks
When stillness oft’ roams near.

Kin to the roots, woven tight, Life fettered, but vast; Branches shake and still stretch Into the chorus of moss, That spirals tender threads,
A calm hand of dusk stretches, To greet far-flung worlds
Where touch pulls out into streams.

Life speaks, where body never lands, Through the quiet strains of streams And the patterned streets, Of nature’s weeping rings.

• T E Hulme