in spring, when the river gives up her dead

those few sweet sodden leaves that haven’t crunched under foot

since before the women came in their droves

to dance by the flickering moon

she remembers the perennial baby blue eyes

they grew by her bedside and after a night of rain,

she could brush them with her fingertips

 

now, nights that burn vivid red

and a troupe of people in plastic shades

a campfire in sacred space, scarce space

these dear friends give gifts to the river

 

and the park she runs through is thick with heat

and people lay blankets by her side

crack open glass bottles and opaque packaging

and lick the up the crumbs

 

and dip fingers inside and press her waters to their mouths

but she is ancient

so when she sighs the ground shakes

and the grass is ripped from beneath them

and their thin stemmed glasses quiver

and she gives them half chewed gum and odd socks

cosy knitted scarves now unwoven sodden masses

that weigh them into the mud

the river flows still, though, heavy with memory

and the imprint of the past

and the humidity of now