I was thirty years old when the river found me.
I walked beside it, some miles every day
Every step closer to its edge and then barefoot in the shallows.
At thirty-three it rained for what felt like a month
And the river, in cruel and crushing spate,
Dragged me off the bank and pinned me to the bottom.
I turned over and over in the dark and struggled and swallowed.
Dashed on the stoney bottom beneath the unbearable weight of the water,
I believed I was dying. Perhaps I was.
Once the river has taken you under, its call is constant.
It calls and you are immediately journeying back there
River-bound through the molasses jungle on an infernal patrol.
You try to change direction,
To pull away and run home but there you stand, by the bank,
Naked and knee deep in its brackish edges.
Full of terror under the moonless sky,
Stepping deeper and deeper until your feet don’t feel the bottom
And your head tilts back and you are gone.
One day, you might escape the river.
When it slows in a turn you might grasp at the reeds and hold tight.
Some days they’ll give. Some days they’ll bear your weight
And you might haul your self up and catch your breath on the bank under the gentle sun.
You are resurrected, there, amongst the reeds and the long grass,
Feeling strong enough to start the long walk home
Through peaceful villages and friendly towns you used to know.
But then, one night at home, in the floorboard-creaking, dripping-tap darkness,
It calls again and out of the door and through the deserted streets
Uou return to the poison water.
At a fold in the river, under the burning canopy,
Where trailing branches dip below the surface,
When you are starving, rotten and wasted in the mist,
Look out for the boatman. He is death’s enemy.
He will cary you home and he will give you the cure.
The water is poison.
Every day it kills you.
Over and over again.
Every dam will fail.
Every bridge collapses.
The river is cold and cruel.
The river is long and black.
The river is unforgiving.
But the boatman will carry you home.