At The Falls, Again

A broken tree’s not made it past the falls.
It’s caught and angled from the river bed
to where the river plunges down and all
the river’s glass is smashed across the edge
to witch’s hair that’s white as fire’s ash,
regathered then, gone dark again as lore
within the water’s falling roar that has
no pause since it’s the constancy of more.
It sounds like rain, the white noise that the heart
endures, the storm between our words that words
just barely mask, the background drone that starts
when life begins and blossoms into birds
and wind, the everything that has no rest
because it lives and life demands no less.

By Ed Hack

 wagner falls in autumn, with caught logs


Photo by Le Do

Doubling Back

woman hiking along riverThe Valency Valley beckons me inland, eastwards, across what I remember was a meadow behind the row of shops, and is now a car park. The ground is tightly netted and gabionned against the vandal fingers of water. I’m soon walking through an aisle of trees, alone on a quiet path that follows the north bank of the river. A duck flies low and fast ahead of me, embodying purpose. Like the jets I see skimming the locks at home, it adjusts its angle in expert increments to steer the central course of the winding river, then disappears around a bend. But this flight defines the landscape as miniature; a narrow valley with secret corners. A scale and nature I’m here to re-learn.

Doubling Back: ten paths trodden in memory by Linda Cracknell, Freight Books, 2014.
Photo by Goran Bogicevic

Current

The fast moving stream
has slowed to a dull lumbering
movement, the waters
shuffle and scuffle by, a calm
lull of sound

This is the place I held
on while we waded, unaware
of who I would be, what
life would bring

Dew on the grass, chirping
all around us, the lap
of water offering a constant
natural baptism.

By JD DeHart


JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His poems have appeared in Gargouille and The Other Herald, among other publications. DeHart blogs at JD DeHart – Feature Poems.

Dawn in Betws-y-Coed

If you’re looking for magic:
that sense of something other –
then look no further.

See where the Conwy steps between the rocks –
touches the gravel redds* with icy feet
and dashes its wizened hair on banks and boulders.

This is a dawn where dippers dredge the light
for caddis grubs and other watery fare
in silent pools.

Oak and alder shade and over-stare
the river’s restless gouging of the rocks
where aeons and the instant come to share
this cleft of sunlight.

By Mervyn Linford

NB. Redd* = spawning nest formed by female salmon using
her tail to dig into the gravel at the bottom of the river.

river tumbling over rocks


Mervyn Linford lives in both Suffolk and Essex in the United Kingdom. He has been writing prose and poetry inspired by the natural environment for nearly fifty years. Saltwater and freshwater habits are his formative areas of interest and he still spends much of his time immersed in the sentient and spiritual dimensions of such places in both person and thauthor photoCredo book covere pen and the keyboard. Click here to visit his website. Mervyn’s latest poetry books may be found at Littoral Books.
Photo of Conwy River running through Betws-y-Coed, Snowdonia, North Wales, by the author.

Freshwater Cadence

I do not speak
the bubbling language
of fish underwater

I do not even speak
the language of the caster,
selecting lures, keeping
hooks out of low-hanging
branches

My voice is the one
that stands, wading, still,
right by the shore, watching
a school of waving shapes
float gently by.

By JD DeHart


JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His poems have appeared in Gargouille and The Other Herald, among other publications. DeHart blogs at JD DeHart – Feature Poems.