jumping downstairs both feet at a time,
reckless as a child, but obedient. Gravity rules
water whether it hangs on the points of leaves,
or pierces the ground like rods of transparent
barley sugar formed on the overhanging tree roots,
Worn steps, cut into rock whose colours
and divisions no craftsman could design,
edge the captured river whose unchanged mind
spans half a million years. It runs downhill,
shouldering its wild-horse way through rocks,
jumping downstairs both feet at a time,
reckless as a child, but obedient. Gravity rules
water whether it hangs on the points of leaves,
or pierces the ground like rods of transparent
barley sugar formed on the overhanging tree roots,
or tumbles like the longest wedding train
over the highest flight of chancel steps,
pulsing cool breaths into the steamy nave.
Sometimes there is the illusion of secret ascent.
Beads balance on the fibres of clothing,
mist blurs the lenses of cameras. But
it's as circular a business as our walk.
Droplets fall back into the lemming race.
In smooth potholes the herd seethes,
batters at exits, with the drumming of hooves.
Margaret Morgan.