The Talking River

I was sent without a hope
Down to the talking river
Found a length of silver rope
To lead me to forever

I tied it to a single star
And anchored it to heather
And climbed as near enough to far
Where clouds give birth to weather

I took the knife my father made
From a raven’s feather
And cut a window through the clouds
As square enough to never

I took the song my mother wrote
Upon a purse of leather
And sang each strange discordant note
To make the evening quiver

The grass laid out its verdant coat
And dressed me with a shiver
And then a weasel and a stoat
Declared my life a whisper

I was sent without a hope
Down to the talking river
Found a length of silver rope
To lead me to forever


—John W. Sexton