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Writer's pictureVanessa Cook

The Beaulieu River



I walk past this river almost every day, a witness to it's changing form. It is a privilege, a gift, to be a witness to such beauty, to this 'beautiful place'.

It's shifting mood reflects my own, always changing, up and down, happy and sad, peaceful or afraid. All things, all at once.

Home to so much life it is also my home and that is a comforting thought. Even in my sleep the river calls to me, lulls me into sync with it's rhythm.

From the confines of my desk I look to the trees outside my window and I know just beyond them she is there, like a mighty snake moving across the land. I smile in acknowledgement.


These are poems written by her banks. They are not the greatest works of poetry but simple expressions of her inspiration. A poor attempt to put into words her magic.



The Babbling Brook


Oh, babbling brook,

harbinger of serenity.

You speak to me of lazy summers,

of lying on my back and gazing

at the shifting canopy above,

of revelling in its refuge

from the hot reach of the sun.

I roll over onto my belly,

cushioned by your mossy banks,

and my soul is soothed by your chatter.

How is it possible that such a noise as yours

can soothe my troubled mind

when all other constant noise

drives me to utter distraction?

Despite all that is thrown at you

you still play your part

with such skill.

Flies and glittering dragonflies

hover gracefully over your crystal form,

caressing your skin.

I dip my hand into your coolness

adding my adoration to the chorus

and I become what you so deftly announce,

serene.

But now it is winter.

The dragonfly does not hover

and I need not hide from the sun.

Yet still I am drawn to you,

over and over,

my belly on your mossy bed,

your song a balm to my soul.

Still I delight in your icy touch,

for we belong here

you and I.

On this stage of shadow and light

we are the eternal players.




Reflections


Up is down and down is up.

These words lose their meaning

as we tumble through space

on our green and blue rock.

The words and stories we use

to bind us in place are no more.

Not gone,

still there,

facets of our shifting form,

but not the whole.

We are held in place by our relationships

with planets, moon and sun,

mountain, stream, tree and fox.

By cosmic forces

little or unknown.

What we think is one way

can easily become the other.

Is it the not knowing

that makes us fear and hate?

If so let us remedy this by knowing.

Knowing that we exist

not by chance,

some great cosmic experiment gone wrong,

but by love,

a purposeful union of spirit.

Every single step of the way

we are supported,

not hindered,

by cosmic forces,

both unseen and little known,

but always there,

constant,

present,

tantalisingly tangible.

So take heart,

the reflection says,

you came from us

and we hold you in the palm

of our hand.






The Goddess of the Night


The clouds hang heavy in the night,

shrouding all in a blanket of gloom.

A night for ghosts

in the graveyard to roam,

seeking solace from their doom.

I can not tell if you are full or not,

if the moon is up or if it is down,

so dense is the darkness that shrouds me.

I hear faint gurgles,

slaps of water against a solid surface.

I approach where memory tells me is your edge,

and sure enough faint ripples

on your burgeoning surface appear.

All things are fluid in this moment.

Night, day

Awake, sleep

Dream, reality.

One moves effortlessly into the next.

Is the cold, wet night so bad?

Should it repel me?

Banishing me to seek solace inside.

Are you happier when fat and full?

When you are exposed mud

and myriads of silver streams

do you feel diminished?

I can not believe it to be so,

for in all your states

you are you,

inseparable from me

and although we may learn,

shift,

change our ways

we remain,

at heart,

pure expressions of the moment.



A Frozen Silence


The stillness, captured in the ice

a frozen silence held

like a preserved picture of sublime magic.

A crystalline remnant of the crepuscular chill.

It mesmerises

and even my breath stills to almost nothing,

reluctant to ripple the winter beauty.

In ice and frosty silence time stands still

and as my eyes soak in the vista,

my lungs drinking frigid air

we become inseparable,

you and I.

But you are a Goddess borne on the wings of the moon

who dances with the sea in a timely fashion.

Salt and sweet, your differences insignificant

as you embrace in co-creation.

And in this lover’s union the sounds held captive

are released from their icy bounds in a rhythmic hissing,

at first subtle, then growing in prominence,

like a great grey snake approaching steadily,

to fill her lover with her powerful presence.

Further and further your rhythmic ripples

move across the frozen landscape

in undulating form,

animating all you touch,

as the swans honk their delighted devotion.

Soon all remnants of this twilight art will be gone

engulfed in your womb waters, great Goddess.

But I was here.

The day called me to your banks

to witness the perfection of this moment.

I raise my heartsong of devotion in chorus

with my feathered friends,

for every time I am called to you

I fall a little bit deeper in love too.



Memory


Wind in the reeds that grace the river’s edge

A subtle music

whispering secrets of movement over the waters.

Pale stalks

a shifting pattern of shadows,

delicate, feathery tufts pointing the way,

to somewhere distant.

Your music conjures echoes in me,

memories,

of hot, languid days

on another mighty river.

My barge slices though the snake like waters

taken by its powerful flow.

I lie on luxurious fabrics and listen to the sounds of the river,

as day shifts to night,

bringing a promise of life on the back of cooler air.

Little stirs in heat of the day

except those made to work.

A gentle flute in song, weaving in and out of the evening sounds

it’s presence as part of the soundscape as the light sound of water on wooden hull,

stilled only at my command.

A large plop, a crocodile, startled and seeking the protection of the waters.

Laughter and lively drumming floats in waves over the waters telling me stories

of warmth, family and life.

Sweat drips down my body, in between the movement of the breeze.

And underlying it all, the music of the reeds

sentinels standing in tribute as we pass

thousands of them, singing their song in the breeze.

Here, now, on the banks of a very different river

I rejoice to hear your music again,

oh sentinels,

and to remember our story

sung together on the wind.



Everything speaks to us if we have ears to hear, eyes to see and a heart to understand. The material world springs from and is imbued with consciousness, it shows us what we need to know, it speaks to our hearts and souls. We are not alone, we are not here by chance, we are part of the fabric of the universe, held in an intricately woven web of our stories. Stop and listen to voices of the waters, wind and earth. All that you need to know is being whispered to you.



Beaulieu River, a beautiful place.

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