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The Avon (and All Her Tributaries and Canals)
by Mark Lindsey Earley
Her perfume musk and earthy hue,
This sacred Ganges of the West.
A lesson just to be, not do,
Her easy flow is richly blessed.
She never strains or "forward plans",
No setting goals, no driven stress.
A lesson which I understand
But seem to practice less and less.
From source, in Wiltshire's golden hills,
With Marden chalk and Bye Brook trout,
The Clifton Gorge's basin filled,
And on to salty sea without.
For she is whole, at once complete,
She doesn't care for hours or years.
The land her head, the sea her feet,
Far removed from doubts and fears.
Her sandy bed where oysters sleep,
And crayfish crawl within the mud.
Her waters shallow, fast or deep,
Bring fresh, renewing, deep-brown blood.
Which feeds the pastures and the crops,
A home for swans and even mink,
And feed into the canal locks,
And where the deer come down to drink.
Where Kelpie play on sunny days,
And students dive from walls above.
Where rowers strain and painters laze,
And champagne couples making love
By sheltering pools with willows shielding,
Play guitar and sing and laugh.
Their kisses and their bodies yielding,
(But watched by children from the path).
And armed with rods and rocket-science,
Fishermen with nets and gear,
Paid a fraction for their licence,
(To let them fish beside the weir).
Of what they've spent on all their stuff.
While little boys think it's fine,
With a bent old pin and piece of string -
For them it seems, that's gear enough,
(It seems they have a better time).
Nurtured by a thousand streams,
And fed by countless, nameless brooks,
Keeps reappearing in my dreams,
And teaches what can't come from books.
How, non-attached and integrated,
Combining truth from many sources,
With no desires or needs unsated,
Simply flowing, on she courses.
To flow to ocean bed Nirvana,
The Buddha has surprising guises,
And perhaps canal men glimpse their Karma,
When they're passing through Devizes.
Or between the market towns,
The chalk and cheese of rural Wiltshire?
More likely, irritated frowns,
Or mooring soon, to get a beer.
If you blink you'll miss the flash -
Electric blue, the Halcyon King,
Or damselflies and dragon flies,
Who hover on their rainbow wings.
Ancient named, my Rive Afon,
Taking all my unshed tears.
Regardless of whatever happens,
She walks beside me through the years.
And when my time has come to die,
And pass in to wider realm,
Like Cabot's "Mathew" sails hurled high,
Surrender standing at the helm.
No backward glance, I'll be out to sea,
Passing gently, easily.
My years complete, my spirit free,
Now letting go of what was "me".
Her perfumed musk and earthy hue,
This sacred Ganges of the West,
She is my guide, my soul's guru,
And in her flow I'll go to rest.
© Mark Lindsey Earley 2000,
Phone: 01626 867447
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