Celestial Creek

A poetic reflection on a little self-exile in the Great Dividing Range.

There is a celestial creek
beside the campground flowing,
A wandering white-gold waterway
on the mountain glowing.
The camper sits in solitude,
and in solitude is sinking.
His gaze is in the water,
a captive barely blinking.

An ear can follow a fellow flighty being,
A feathered wanderer flitting,
From branch to branch emitting
A song reserved for those alone, sitting.

A nose can calm its owner by proposing
The arresting aromas of embers enclosing,
The mellow manners of receding rain;
The essence of woods wracked with receding pain.

A finger dipped can often break enchantment;
Disrupt the celestial creek, flowing rampant;
Push back against the current
Just for space, just for a moment ...

Then to sense the waters re-join their logos,
To sense anew the fey rising of the cosmos
That meets at sunrise the descent
Of all things cyclical, so to repent.

For a tongue can seldom lose the taste
Of bitter words that break the good uncertain grace,
Unless, indeed, its owner treats it fey
And incarcerates its senses with the blood of no decay.

Then and only then,
When become a camper behind a curtain,
Can one renew their senses
Just enough to be uncertain.

Uncertain, yes, at least, of the reasons for the worries
That pervade the minds of those
Perpetually surrounded
By powers progressing towards the close.

In dank cities with dark demures,
With hasty cash and hasty cures;
In hardened CBDs with clotted streets,
With rotten water and rotten treats.

The close comes close indeed;
The camper takes another dose maugre greed.
Fairies rise and cycles descend;
Thus, alone, he may begin to mend.