Rushing Slowly
I contemplate the transience of the River Bovey.
Every molecule of water that flows past my feet
has a destiny, whether it is to evaporate,
to splash onto the shingle that scratches at my soles,
sink into the peaty soil
or connect with the vastness of the sea.
Every leaf, green, frosted or baked dry by the sun
will crumble, flake along the route
or wash up intact on a beach,
ten or ten thousand miles away.
Every little stick tumbles and rolls
between east and west river bank,
to be claimed by a golden retriever
or gathered by a green consumer
to give home a few minutes of warmth.
From its source between Chagford and Shapley commons,
the Bovey glides, swirls and gushes to merge with the Teign
and rush headlong to the sea.
We are as the smallest drops, the most delicate leaves,
chasing through our three score and ten.
Transient beings, swimming, floating,
crashing against the shore of life,
relentlessly struggling to connect
with the vastness of our race.
Text and image used with permission, © Gilly Goldsworthy, 2014
