67 The Weir

Reading:

The Weir

One September morning
I sat for a while on the bank 
Of the stream by Cothele weir
To study the water-flow
As it came over the edge.
At that very instant the stream, 
Till then untroubled, clear
And nowhere turbulent,
Divided into many
Wavering water-braids.
These hesitated for a moment,
Or so it might seem,
On the very brink, 
Reluctant to yield to gravity.
Then, defeated by a force
Beyond their knowing,
Sheared as they fell
Into many sparkling 
Parabolic curves
To shoot clear of the wall
Of moss and trailing water-weed
And rise again in bubbling tumult
As they crashed into the reflux churning
In a hollow scoured in rougher seasons.

I thought of Leonardo’s water drawings.
He saw streams disturbed by boulders
In terms of curls, as in a woman’s hair when
Tresses break free of restraining ribbon
And tumble in diminishing waves
To burst into ringlets on the shoulders. 

But this conflicted boiling was not at all
Like his beguiling quattrocento images,
Shaped by the classical Ideal.
Rather, the endless fractal turmoil 
Merged with the cataract of sound 
And stirred fantasies of some 
Fin de siècle, art nouveau Ondine
That wraith-like, would emerge
From behind those shivering rills
And, as in a dream or trance, 
Dance in that beam of sunlight
Which slanted through vestiges
Of autumn mist that steam
From a pool at the upper level.
Ravel played by Martha Argerich perhaps.

Musical reveries collapse.
A dog rushes by with a bound
To fetch a stick his owner
Had thrown into a shallow
The other side of the bridge.
It splashed into the holding pond 
And swam to find the branch.
Twig between teeth it shot up the path
To shake itself dry by the spillway.
I shrank back to dodge the spray
And turned to see a young girl
Holding a lead. Ondine? No. Alas!
And I soon lost sight of girl and hound 
As they passed on, dog nosing the grass. 
Alone, I resume my reflections on the swirl
Of water falling from a ledge.