Gentle
upon
the face
of
the Hill,
this
quiet dawn.
Stars,
west-faded
and wide-flung,
scribe
silver'd fire
upon
the great
sky-cloak.
A
small wind
cards
cold
fingers through
leaf-poor
trees.
Today,
I am
in mind of another dawn,
a
day-beginning
so
distanced
it
should have been a dreme....
Uncommon
cold,
that
winter,
the
river's crystal-brown thread
slowed
and
weary
in
its narrow course,
black-grey
bank-stones
near
hidden
by
blue-green
ice-melt,
tree
roots,
night-rimed
and
sparking
beneath
an admantine
necklacing
of snow.
I
remember the dawn, that day.
Oh,
yes.
I
remember.
Da
and Mumma had gone,
you
see,
the
river binding them
in
green-gold silence,
the
quieting waves of her
parting
us
forever.
Gone.
They
were........
they
are
gone.
Yet
ever,
ever
did I
seek them,
ever
did
my heart
follow.
Beneath
and between
the
reeds,
the
pools,
the
little
back-flung
eddies,
ever
did I
find myself
close
by
the
Water-witch,
she
who
had held them,
she
who
knew
their
ending.
Perhaps,
within
the silences,
the
dark depths
of
her,
there
was some memory,
still,
some
small
remainder
of
them.
And
so I attended her,
the
River-Lady.
This
morning,
I
attended her,
the
sky orange-pink with winter-water'd
dawn,
fog
lying
like
silver lace
upon
green-mounded hillocks,
trees,
starve-limbed
and lonely.
The
very air,
even,
smelled
of cold,
the
sharp spike of it
burning
and crystalline,
magikal,
somehow,
within
my lungs.
I
wondered,
in my
small and childish way,
I
wondered,
(as
my hand broke the ice at river's edge),
I
wondered
if it
were burning and crystalline
and
magikal
to
breathe water
instead
of air.
I
wondered if you might see the sky
from
beneath the water-curtain,
or
the wavering
tall
ranks of slender trees......
* * *
* * * * * * * * * * *
Near
frozen, entire,
the
river that day,
the
bank harsh
with
the sliver-creak
of
cast-up ice,
the
little water-ribbon
cold
and still
before
the Sun's swift rise.
And I
stayed by her,
this
river,
this
thief......
All
the long day,
I
kept my vigil,
watching
and
waiting
as
the sky became
burnt
with blue,
warming
waters
journeying,
at last,
to
the distanced Sea.
Birds
came,
their
small, winter songs
rising
like
smoke,
each
note parceled out,
thin
as thread
upon
the wakening air.
At
the last,
the
Sun
painted
gold and rose
upon
the encircled clouds,
touched
its gentle light
to
depthless,
secret
places.
At
the last, I turned from her.
Finally,
I could turn
from
her,
the
cold wind
welcome
and
bruising
upon
my uncovered
face.
______________________________
Tender
dawn,
parchment-fragile,
touches
the Hill,
waits,
like
a held-breath
in
brake
and
thicket
and
field,
soothes
each
wandering stream.
And
still I stand,
in
the dying of the night
and
the birthing of the day.
I
stand,
and
dreme,
forever,
upon
the River
and a
lonely
winter's
dawn.
