Rivers: God Series

He followed the Naiads downstream,
bastardised by fast flow -  
whispers of an uprising,  
staked upon the trees -  
eels a-plenty dancing deep in the holy pools,  
beneath Pandora's box, gushing.  
A communion is shared by two met slates on the bed,  
cup runneth over.  
He, liquid personified, rips the moss from long tossed  
rock,  
he, white clouds pouring from his ridges, turns upon himself  
causing great undercurrents to sink the unbeknown.  
Within his icy rage there is a quietness,  
when levels are low and lagoons are plenty,  
beneath year old Tors, on landscape rarely tread  
trust is found, where he sings soft lullabies  
in dusk, sedentary,    
lapping over loose stones gently tousled to new places,  
to lay with new lovers on a carpet of oxygenating green -  
This is the God of today, giving away, supporting life, each move chaotic -  
precious.

Thanks be, River Ours.