THE RIVER

There's a river flows
at the bottom of my dreams.

I've heard of it before,
read of it in books of heroes,

caught a glimpse of its surface
from afar, seen rafts and boats

drifting past in my mind's eye,
caught myself responding to a farewell kiss

one bluish morning, and one
saffron day caught it cutting through

my small back garden, an eel of a stream
blackly reflecting the sun,

fattening slowly on the ring
road beyond my hedge.  My boat is nearly done:

one or two planks to fix, a seat,
a steering wheel, final tarring

and a small red
sail.  I can't take any passengers -

only the steersman can go along...
I turn over warm in my real bed...

but know when it reaches my
garden door I'll have to leave

and step abroad and cast off
and trust my steersman's eye.

© R.G. Bishop