the river

Poem #308 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.

Back to Bachelard and me – Introduction


he wept young hours
with every tear
he let fall
into the slow sweep
of the river
of regrets

drop by drop
time must fall
and melancholy
holds its own duration

hour by hour
the river flows
steadfast

days and days
into more days

he wept a year
in an outburst
of sobbing
wild

the river swelled
with each tear
that splashed

until
the water rose
high enough
to wet his feet

he was an old man

his last days
still damp
on his cheek


© Frank Prem 2018

Bachelard and me Poem #309: in the black cell

10 thoughts on “the river

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