The river runs dry

The river runs dry

A stone filled bed

Brooks no argument

Not even a trickle

Of water

Not a tickle of fish

Nor salmon splash

Sun bleaching

The water white

As it tumbles over

A high fall

In lively pursuit

Of a cascade

Old boats beached

On a sandy bank

Where wise men

Sat tending nets

As travellers preached

Of other wonders

Less than captivating

For an old soul

Waiting for the world

To turn

The tide to rise

All things pass

When the river runs

Find me the words

To mend the ways

Cast the net

Bring in a haul

Of descriptors

To flounder over

The meaning

Of a lazy trawl

Catch a leathered

Old sole

Hiding in a leaky bucket

As a lesson in humility

Whisper thanks

Into the open air

And pray for rain