To Dart

On a calm day,
when the Sun makes meat of the vulnerable
Brad stones call for their heart
and I hear them singing, from way down in the open river
in the Dartington estate, barefoot,
waist-high in oozing mud -
ready, waiting
to be next.

I sink in,
enjoying the decadence of it all -
the isolation, the familiar navigation,
the feeling of skin bathed clean.

The year has tumbled forward, with me tied to the cart enjoying every second of the life of it. I admire the mother duck and her 'lings, a grey wagtail sharing his hunt with his chosen mate, a dipper so black he almost blends in with the water.
Yes, this is the life meant for living.
Swimming far from the edges of horror I've known.

I have heard Dart crying,
and in each submission of my soul I find myself crying too, singing the same song from my wailing soul -
longing to remain a permanent companion,
hair framing pale skin,
soul submerged in perpetual bliss,
fingers stretched on the thinnest of paper.
I thirst endlessly for this freedom
as the river thirsts for me.

The years have tumbled forward - what worldly prizes they've given me.