Quiet River

 

When the morning's flight

lifts the darkened blind,

and slows the speed of time,

be ready in your heart and mind

 

with gratitude, as you drift

on a sweet and quiet river,

lined by silent watchers;

remember their gifts, and the jewels

                           of the givers,

 

For that light is sure to glow

fierce and steady in your memory -

a time when, young in years, you looked

                                     for tomorrow

but found mere traces of eternity.

 

How to explain such growing wisdom,

whether dormant in the reflected steel

of shimmering waters, safe in their valley,

or in cast-off sparks from the common weal?

 

Set fast upon a rising ground,

the path of understanding is rocky,

                          the lichen damp;

no choice is given, save a trial of wills,

paced out, silent as Serpico's lamp.

 

Here, the demons of long goodbyes

drip chants and doggerel dirges,

to flood the past with black regret

until (from courage) an open road emerges.

 

Thus reconciled, turn your thoughts

towards the quiet river's end,

where an ancient lighthouse stands,

its beam your soul's unending friend.

 

Chris Hubbard

South Cockerington,

England

2017