River

Slow-winding river,
Like the run of blood.
No running, mad water,
Like the coming of blood.

With weed-covered banks,
That wind all around.
And those pebbled beaches,
That cover the ground.

Where willows entangle,
With the reaches of sage.
So stagnant in moving,
Like the grips of old-age.

Down by the bridges,
A sweep of land falls.
Pine-trees are inter-mixed,
And the blue-jay calls.

Slow-winding river,
Around a nest of tall cliffs.
Where trees start to running,
And a big mountain lifts.


E.P. 1908 - 1989

Almo Creek with Cache peak through the fog.