River Song

The river is singing
the song of my dead.
I lay in the grass

And watched the clouds
slip anywhere
out of the sea

before the clouds drift
again to the sky;
And I feel again, too,
the moisture stir inside

At night,
while the river sings,
the song
that murmur within,

Thus turns the wheel,
round by a soft brush,
like a mother stroking
the curved back of a child.

—Lola Ridge

• Lola Ridge