The Old Prison

On the far side of the dark River, the old prison waits; Its stillness holds the scent of rain, The sorrow of the clouds.

The trees are small, the world is dark, Yet it leans to the history of soil And the stone remembers the heartbeats Of those who came and went like shadows.

But my soul is still here, Like a vigil by the water, like a dream In the wilderness, Holding out for the wildness of the trees And the leap of the river, unseen.

• Judith Wright