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Water of Holme

by Tim Taylor


On moorland, on meadow, from dark sky I'm falling,

through peat, into pavement, I'm seeping, I'm sinking.

Above me the crows and the curlews are calling

and of me the hares and the horses are drinking.


Then softly, from secretive springs I'm emerging,

I'm gurgling, giggling, all the time growing.

Swift over pebbles and pathways I'm surging,

through culverts and canyons I'm flooding, I'm flowing.


All over this valley I'm darting and dancing.

Down hillsides, through hamlets, I'm rushing, I'm roaring.

I move like a merciless army advancing,

from drains, over roadways, relentlessly pouring.


Look up, at my mother-clouds languidly leaving:

I'm gleaming on cobblestones, dripping from railings

and soon I am no longer splashing and seething,

the surge is subsiding, my fury is failing.


My surface now smooth—no more bubbling and boiling—

I'm limpid, slow, viscous, a lava flow creeping

in eddies: I find, in this curling and coiling,

the peace that I have been unknowingly seeking.