The Source and Now the Final

‘Let’s go to the Allondon’s source!’ they cried and I

expect a trickle or gentle gush, a scene of birth.

Not a waterfall pummelling the mossy rocks then

pausing in a pool to gather breath before

thundering in confidence across pastures, between trees.

It’s March and snows are melting, you tell me that

in summer it slows to suppuration.

So I wonder what you think of the slowing of my seasons

and stumble in my gait.

Photo from ain-tourism.com
Photo from ain-tourism.com

The river Allondon is unusual: it springs out of the ground as a waterfall, so is already a considerable stream as it rustles and hustles and meanders its way through the Pays de Gex to join the Rhone. I am linking this poem to the wonderfully diverse offerings on display at Open Link Night for dVerse Poets.

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The River

From the BBC website.
From the BBC website.

Now those memories come back to haunt me 
they haunt me like a curse 
Is a dream a lie if it don’t come true 
Or is it something worse 
that sends me down to the river 
though I know the river is dry 
That sends me down to the river tonight (Bruce Springsteen) 

 

I said river and I meant river

I walked to the river in my dreams

searched for it when sleeping

when keeping watch

when whistling the night

 

I whistled the river but found no river – I now know

that whether I conjure it or fear it

it’s never outside

when I struggle, when I scream,

that’s when it comes

the river

in narrow trickles down my back – it glistens…

in the river I’ll be taken

in the river I’ll breathe my last

one untamed gulp

Foam

Crushed

 

So what can I do – chewed, spat out

So what can I do – gnawed to flotsam

 

I said river but I meant no river

All I craved was

A lagoon