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

days and days
into more days

he wept a year
in an outburst
of sobbing

the river swelled
with each tear
that splashed

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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.