This love that flows is a river,
Of unknown source and destination.
I could no more halt this invisible stream, this flow,
Than turn the tides,
Constant and never ending.
When I step into this stream,
I speak with the river’s song:
Music and flowering and birdsong,
A flowing slow by hushed and silent reeds,
Mysteriously dark, mysteriously still,
Throwing spears to the sky,
Ever turning, ever transforming;
Flush with the earth’s spring,
Fluid, an ever-constant murmur;
Seeing and being sight,
Both being and aware.
Dynamic; a shimmering reflection,
Hummingbird wingbeats,
Miraculously mid-air:
Between the lift and the pull,
Thus I am being, thus I am doing,
Practise becomes a river bed,
The soft and fertile valleys,
Where Innana and Dumazi
Kissed their bare feet.
Lo my love I become the river again,
Timeless, everywhere, always.
Come, it’s a matter of simply this:
Being and aware,
This is called
Becoming the river´s song
Poem by Jules Christie
