‘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.
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.
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