There are rocks in my river, dry and pitted, waiting for rain like old grandmothers waiting for the changing of seasons. Wiping their hands on faded aprons after peeling apples, bagging them and putting them in the freezer for future days. The rocks are craggy. Defiant in nature but yet it is only nature that will move them. When the rains come.
Spider sits looking across to the other bank. The rocks are smoother there, always smoother on the other side, peeking out from between the long and wavering stalks of bamboo which criss cross each other, gossiping over stories to tell to travellers, stories heard by the attentive.
You have to wait for the rain to fall on the mountain and then fall over higher ground gathering minerals and the pleasure of plants full of sunshine energy and light. Let it wash through, twisting a path carved out in preparation, the one it always takes. jump out of the way.
Spider shivers as she waits. Closing her eyes, the hands, warm and pressing cover her forehead.
Watching her closely, I squint to see her. The hands press, still like stone, inspiring her mind to walk inwards where water flows on a journey through the cracks and crevices carved by cold mountain water. The edges of her lips curl upwards as she breathes in hopeful images of fluidity. Her imagination becomes as real as the nails on her fingers that dig into dry grass, spreading wide, tingling. Her imagination brings aroma of fresh rapid bubbles rushing towards the point of a trickle, you can hear them faintly urgent.. It is all she can hang on to until she reaches heaven. How much longer must she wait?
He who places his hands, is far away and waiting. One day she will see his face, For now he lives in the stones, in the deep and dark cracks hidden and un-reachable. She senses him everywhere. The river remains dry on the bed until the rains come. It will come alive, as the water hits on it’s journey to an ocean far and inexplicable The ocean would disagree and it knows it’s purpose. To Spider it is bewildering, however the hands compel patience so Spider waits.
Clouds come, rain falls, wind blows, bamboo gossips and dry and pitted stones, white and floury turn grey, moist and dark. Spider scurries for shelter, shivering and surmising, suppose the time is now. She cannot predict anything. She hears the water getting close. She has a choice, to climb up onto the bank or to flow with the river.
He who placed his hands has gone, only imprints remain. In an instant she jumps into the trickle of water and a new journey begins as she sinks down into a world like none she had known.
Hello said the ocean to a bright new day and a fish was born.
on the rocks
