Oh, how the river rampaged in its bed,
how free and unfettered its dance,
what a roaring music the waves made,
hurling themselves time after time at the rocks
and over the shallow pools along the shore.
Of their own accord, the clouds swept into rolling seas
and threw up soaring mountain ranges,
vast Himalayas arching over the tossing willow
where I curled like an otter, thunder struck
and lightning dazzled by all the furious wonders,
but content in the storm and raging wind.
A wordless understanding, the sure knowing
that I was in the right place and where I should be,
that storm, wind and river were old friends,
allies and kindred spirits I had known forever
or known at least in many other lifetimes, true
companions with their own music, wandering journeys
and a multitude of arcane tales to share.
The rain was a cold caress amid the clamour,
the lashings, the blowings and the tumult,
the wind a great winged horse to bear me away,
far from the endless rules and "thou shalt nots",
from the silent mealtimes and the nursery plates
and the early bedtimes, enforced long hours
before the moon rose cold and bright over the river.
Some time after the storm's passing
they found me asleep beneath the willow tree
three years old, dreaming of wind and waves.