The river – tidal here, beginning to open,
becoming estuarial – rises
among the reeds on the boggy moors
in the foothills of the mountains, rushes
down waterfalls, becoming this wide,
settled course. The mountain ranges are shades
of mauve, lilac, delicate purples.
Through the hazy March sun snow glints on the peaks.
At low water, sandbanks, mid-river, glow
golden. On the glistening mud-banks along
the east shore, curlews and lapwings feed.
The blackened, wooden ribs of a sunken boat
protrude. There are branches, torn nets, a buoy.
The light airs from the south become a light breeze
until the tide turns and a fresh breeze rises
from the north. Pennants and rigging snap
and jangle as a chill wind takes hold.
The incoming tide melds with the river
in brown-water flurries at the edges
of the banks, then the runnels fill, and eddies
whirl wider and wider until all is one.
By David Selzer