down by the river
and the ghosts of tens and the trading fair
a friend is there
and we walk and talk to the train tracks
with our stonetaps, till over the water
we drink painfully the white reflecting
of streetlamps
all along the calligraphy and we pulled
down the gravel slope to the home of the wraiths
that once frightened me, and i clung to the rocks
but here there there is only decayed bedding cut
by the splinters of moonbeams between
the clenching fingers of the trees
and we are quiet
as we cast the hooftracks of brave children
in the wake of the dinosaurs that stand on their graves
and blot the stars
aligned to the phases of the moon in mazes of water
and the fossil pipes we climb to the brow of the giant
that creaks and sway and we look down
and it is a thousand feet to the rocks
and to the day.

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