Across the Other Side of the River
Across the other side of the river When I think of scent there is only one place which springs to mind. A place known to me when I was a child, now disappeared and lost to time, the wondrous weir. For when the school bell would ring I knew where to meet my mind and just my body bring. For as I would gaze out of the window my mind was lost on the rivers crescendo. Although it was filled with sights and sound, the scent was the best and pleasing of all the senses that I found. The crimson crashing of the waves, if scent was a sound this place would be a symphony. And as it dances with my senses the wind would change and carry a new and pleasing assault on my olfactory senses, if scent was a colour this place would be a rainbow, guarded by all the colours of the spectrum. For I am a spectator and as I voyeur of the silver sheen of the gleaming salmon as they steadfast against the waves and I watch them on the crimson crashing of the waves. My scent is filled with great distraction, for across the river lies a great attraction. For there is an old man who fishes there, who plumes of piped today in the air. And as the scent drifts and dances it way toward me, He would cast his rod and I would cast my mind, If scent was a touch this place would be a mothers loving embrace And still I can’t take my eyes off the weathered lines of this man’s face. This man who remains to me a mystery, With eyes that tell of hidden histories. If scent was a taste my mouthful mind, would salivate in this place. If scent was a child she would play with me all day and never shun me away, And as the temperature drops and I begin to shiver My scent, my sound , my sight , my taste , my touch are all lost on the other side of the river. Beds of strawberries on fire shall dampen the burning of the heart’s desire.