When The Hearts Bleeds
By Eve Docherty
© all rights reserved 2004
1
On Water
Streams
Somewhere, in a distant time, I recall the heavy pressed air
of loneliness. This day, by itself, consoles the worn shadows of that dark place. Cold rivers flow constantly, sculpting their way along weakened banks each year cutting deeper into landscapes as roots cling in silent desperation. Fallen debris
is captured, tangled in a frothy mixture of the dead and dying. Today the waters move unhindered, cleverly concealing life's sediments below.
***
Water has been the well from which many of my poems were drawn. I imagine myself standing over the well, peering down into the deep, black waiting for my voice to come back. When it does, I take up my pen.By Eve Docherty
© all rights reserved 2004
1
On Water
Streams
Somewhere, in a distant time, I recall the heavy pressed air
of loneliness. This day, by itself, consoles the worn shadows of that dark place. Cold rivers flow constantly, sculpting their way along weakened banks each year cutting deeper into landscapes as roots cling in silent desperation. Fallen debris
is captured, tangled in a frothy mixture of the dead and dying. Today the waters move unhindered, cleverly concealing life's sediments below.
***
For as long as I can remember water has drawn me to it. From childhood to this day I have always found myself in close proximity to some form of it. I have been enriched by its clarity and urged onward by its movement through a serene nature.
In front of my small home, nuzzled sweetly into the landscape a small pond glimmers its lazy southern charm. So many times I have stood on my porch and watched the mist rise and burn away. Here I've heard the laughter of children mingled with my own, seen smiles that are etched in my memory forever, and found hope, peace and joy.
A short walk through the dense forest of hemlock, Rhododendron and Mountain Laurel will lead you to the Cartecay River, which weaves along the base of Stover Mountain. Once there the only sounds are that of the water tumbling and rippling along its way south to the Ellijay River which then becomes the Coosewatee. No matter where I go in the course of my day I am never very far away from the waters healing touch.
In front of my small home, nuzzled sweetly into the landscape a small pond glimmers its lazy southern charm. So many times I have stood on my porch and watched the mist rise and burn away. Here I've heard the laughter of children mingled with my own, seen smiles that are etched in my memory forever, and found hope, peace and joy.
A short walk through the dense forest of hemlock, Rhododendron and Mountain Laurel will lead you to the Cartecay River, which weaves along the base of Stover Mountain. Once there the only sounds are that of the water tumbling and rippling along its way south to the Ellijay River which then becomes the Coosewatee. No matter where I go in the course of my day I am never very far away from the waters healing touch.
And so begins my small journey. It is my hope that you will find within these small offerings, parts of yourself that identify and connect with small parts of mine. It is about traversing the rough topography of life and finding in the end that there are far worse things than tired, aching feet and absolutely nothing better than the journey itself. It is the souls only recourse as it bends and twists about life's comings and goings, conforming always to its truest nature.
No comments:
Post a Comment