This started life as a poem written when I was seventeen. The river in mind was Church Beck at Coniston, Cumbria where I grew up. When I was a child the area near where the beck ran into the lake was used as a dumping ground. We used to walk along the lake shore to the dump to see if we could find anything interesting. Even though it's only a beck, to me it was a big wide river then.
Crossing the RiverEarly in the morning I was crossing the river,
couldn't fly over - there was only one way.
My feet felt the tangle of the flesh-cutting river-bed:
the old rusty pram and the bicycle wheel.
I couldn't get over, I couldn't get under,
the flesh-cutting river-bed tore at my bones.
Then I saw the early-morning fisherman
looking at me from the other side.
He told me:
"Help your feet when you're crossing the river
look away the stones;
help your feet when you're crossing the river,
don't let it get to your bones;
walk a way out from the flesh-cutting river-bed,
look away the steel;
help your feet when you're crossing the river,
the flesh that is cut will be healed."
And all of a sudden I knew he talked sense;
I smiled and I said, "I will do as you say"
I clenched my teeth, I helped my feet,
from the flesh-cutting river-bed I walked a way.
I turned round to thank him at the rising of the sun
but the early morning fisherman was gone, was gone.
I turned round to thank him at the rising of the sun
but the early morning fisherman was gone, gone.
©2003 Rahel Guzelian
