Stone Water
by Geoffrey Heptonstall

Owls must haunt the mind,
no wild wanderer dare ignore.
So too with foxes of course.
Ever alert to the power of others,
peaceable creatures gather,
defensive of their territory.

The shiver of the sprinting hare
summons necessity for shelter
from the endless night of winter.
We forget the cleverness of creatures,
ignoring their thoughts,
supposing their sounds make no sense.
We see feathers in flight,
a hurry of startled fur,
without imagining the mind
that goes high or runs with spirit.

The autumnal chill soon falls
on the life of a passing migrant
whose summer’s end begins the venture
with the taste of southern sea,
and dust, before a forest sun.
Africa calls its children home.

A transformation declares
its natural intention
to complete the ending of the year.
All life makes to prepare.
Ice begins its sharp descent,
as clear as lovers’ innocence
betrayed by cynical frost
when water is stilled in its course.
In winter there is only stone;
no feather, no fur, no bone.



 

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