Gentle oars stroke the water
And I try not to disturb
The vast humbling space that surrounds me
This beautiful blur,
A mottled green medley,
Laps at the boat and my fingers dip low
Just to touch that suffusion, connect
And let all of the usual confusion disperse.
Meld just a moment, release and let go.
The forest cares nothing for that urban humdrum
That sets your heart drumming; it’s too old for that
And no matter what happens to you after this
Take some solace the waters here will ever-flow,
Just as sunrises will bring morning mists.
Soon I’ll awake, wonder whether we
Separate out from such monuments
So as to live lives in little flats,
On little lanes, in little cities,
And hide ourselves from being humbled.
No nine-to-six structure can constrict the trees,
And city-soot worries don’t last in the fens.
There’s freedom and terror
To be found in the notion
That I could release all on which I depend,
Accept all my smallness at last
And suspend myself, so to drift endless
In this emerald nook of the earth.
To be nothing and so part of everything
How alien, how oddly enticing.
John Clifford Poetry 