Body in Late Meditation

An hour from now the river will be grey,
the last light rising up from it like smoke,
all trace of its red brilliance gone. This day
will be the past, when voices called or spoke

like rushing water, slowing as the cold
of night came nearer with its hints of death.
How quick all passing is. Even these bold
reds, spread like fire, give way to icy breath

tingeing the trees and banks unearthly white.
If night were one long dream of being held
inside the lover's arms, we'd stay there, light
with joy we'd never want to see dispelled.

We'd lose these dark-banked fears of growing old,
of slipping off like water, deep and cold.

Copyright © 2003 Lynne Knight All rights reserved
from Snow Effects

Small Poetry Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission