Greycastle VI

Snow melt has raised the river, and

Swelled with seasonal aggression

It thrusts burly wet shoulders

through the crumpled mill races

and old forgotten sluices.

The locks are closed;

tangled branches fret against

breakwaters and bridge columns.

In this suspended season between

winter and spring,

The wind tears down from the north

Gaining no purchase on steel, glass,

bare branches,

brick,

or last year's withered grass.

The river and the wind contest,

The wind ripping spray from

the churning waterfall,

Raising a towering cloud of water-vapor smoke

in my city without fire.

Heads down against the wind,

Faceless travelers are indifferent

to the hovering spectre

Dissipating alone as the river

hurls away,

The less than paternal wind

long gone already.

Christopher J. Cramer

June 6, 2011