A river poem.

Posted by on November 7, 2015 in Ireland, Travel Blog | 0 comments




Oily river flows toward the widening space

Of  Norse Gods creeping below the tidal fall.

The rolling waves move inexorably downstream

As the exiting tide adds freshness to its salty taste.

Deeper here and greener with a tinge of brown.

The folding wefts of water make rivulets

In the passage from brackish and then to salt.

The wind scurries across the uneven planes to rippling squall.

Dark stones watch from the ancient banks.

Glassless space where hope passed and left

To find a new and better space.

Past ancient woods of yew and tangled hazel.

Deep nets cast deep below the turning surface.

To snare and capture the giant of the depths.

Spawned in its bowels and carried back

To make a smothering trip to ancient mountain stones.

The dapple and dart of the fishers deep,

As they rest and wait below the barnacle cover

Of ancient stones arched in majesty over its mighty girth.

A slow splash of white flashes, as a swan bellies down in its coolness.

Morning cows wade stiffly in the flowing motion.

Drinking slowly with deep gasps of inhaled swallow weed.

They stand and watch as the Dublin train rattles overhead

And plunges steaming, into the black gash of deep cut stone.

Oars cut deep in early falling tide as a fishing cot

Turns ancient spiraling wake to complete the circle

And encase the meshed walls of entanglement.

To pull the hopeful catch onto muddy shores.

Wider, expanding and creeping slower with steady flow

It moves past the place where Harvey hung on the bridge of death.

Past the warm confessionals of the Franciscan fathers.

Past ancient barnacles standing safely on pitch pine timbers.

Past the stone faced ballast bank with its stacks of stone.

Turning slowly to port and outwards to the open sea.

Passing shallows and channels.

Free now, it pushes east into the golden rising morn.

Denis Hearn 2009

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