Greycastle VI



Snow melt has raised the river, and

Swelled with seasonal aggression

It thrusts burly wet shoulders

            through the crumpled mill races

            and old forgotten sluices.

The locks are closed;

            tangled branches fret against

            breakwaters and bridge columns.


In this suspended season between

            winter and spring,

The wind tears down from the north

Gaining no purchase on steel, glass,

            bare branches,


            or last year's withered grass.


The river and the wind contest,

The wind ripping spray from

            the churning waterfall,

Raising a towering cloud of water-vapor smoke

            in my city without fire.

Heads down against the wind,

Faceless travelers are indifferent

            to the hovering spectre

Dissipating alone as the river

            hurls away,

The less than paternal wind

            long gone already.



                                                                        Christopher J. Cramer

                                                                        June 6, 2011