Lost to the Stream

Earth and stone
                         are washed
The riverbed carries them
                                          and the sound
of the washerwomen
                                  come to beat
                                                       the dirt
letting it pass on
                           pass back
                                          to its sea cradle
from the bruised fabric
                                     Their song
                                                       of toil
and careless gossip
                               ripples the water
shot with golden hairs
                                    from dawn’s mane
a roar echoing
                       in mini
                                    as the sand and stone
tumble
            stumbling
                             along the stream

What words
                    formed
                                an ancient forgotten
language
               crumbling to settle
as a monochrome mosaic
The women weave
this song and earthen tapestry

Before the mountains
                                   before the sea
where the river runs to
                                    the village lies
like a shell
                  once white bright
                                               fading
in the mountain shadows
                                         always growing
Fields shift
                   eagles drift as time
spirals its own home
                                 own conch
                                                    silent
never blown for fear that the trick will
                                                              break
the spell cast
                      will be realized
                                                and torn
like the morning’s collection of spider webs

As the farmers gather
                                    in the maize and wheat
a piper picks up his reed
                                       plucked from the riverstream
and sits at the mountains’
                                        feet
                                               blowing whispering
tales of village history
                                    Carried as driftwood
on a current
                    spread apart as dragonfly wings
to the workers and weavers
                                            planters and composers
this second layer
                           stiches itself
                                                to the husky wailings
disappearing like blind fish out to sea
their scales patched
with sunlight and algae

Earth and stone
                         pursued and pursuing
                                                            the rushing waters
to lightless deeps
                            heavy with captured sound
where the tiny bones
of fishes and humans
rattle and bump
                          eroded
                                      to fine instruments
lost to the living
                           though not the forgotten