There's something in the Clyde, the river.
I belong there--we all do--tenderly
Drifting towards the edge.
We all belong on that river
In one way or other, in
Some nook or cranny.
We're all on the same level there.
That's because water levels off.
It's always harmonically level.
How it happens is this:
When you're sitting on a boat on the Clyde,
You're at eye level with all of life in those parts--
The bugs buzz buzzing around your head,
The baby deer tip-toeing at water's edge,
Pausing, looking, ever-still.
Even fish are close enough to see.
Please note: it has to be a quiet boat, like a canoe.
No motors will do on this river.
Rider, driver, whatever. There's no us or them.
We're all the same here,
All together drifting down in chorus with the current pull,
The hull, sometimes swimming in whirlpools,
Fishing in and out of sunspots and shadows,
Sometimes still--Quiet as a hushed breeze in midair.
I know, this is where I belong on those days
When I hear the level dissent in syncopated rhythm,
When I can't see eye to eye,
When the deer sees me and runs away in fear.
I just need the river to be here.
To pull me in legato mood
To the nearest quiet pool of water,
So I can sit and ponder
My place here on this river.