My River My Poetry.

The river is my poetry...
for I am the poet, this is my river,and always will be...
as I compartmentalise little square box's each in there own way.
I stand by the river, that I crossed sometime ago
its a place I love to come and be myself once more.
And through the undergrowth, as I fight to get to you,
through the dew field woods...
can't help thinking of you, as my gaze settle's on you ...
I cross that hill... by the window there's you,
the invitation from that yellow candle light
I saw in the flame, you in silhouette...
as I saw you the very first time.
I look through the shadows at you...
that unforgettable first look, that passed between me and you,
our eyes locked for an instant,
as the local women passed by with loads on their heads,
and laughter in they voices, and their men with bales of wood as they struggled trough ...
Their shadows tumbles on the river, as far as one can see,
and the smoke penetrates through the village,
where the railway bridge with the steam for that train
people were going that way.
as the train thunders over the bridge its headlights flashing everywhere,
the noise the smoke the smell, and then "silence" .
I can hear the footsteps, as the whispering wind touching me...
I can not help but inhale the smoke in the wind,
that once you came to me like this, with the scent of coffee,
and those fragrance'd kisses whenever we meet ...
I waited for you, as the rain came...but where were you...............Babu ?

                         Connie