I know the river ran red

I know the river ran red

I know the river ran red 1920 1187 Christopher Hopkins

I know the river ran red
until the sea,
where the wild throat
of a sky washed to the reaches
before the magnet dark of eve.

In this wavelength,
this limbo hour,
the sea becomes its own country,
the alt-stars over-look don’t quiver,
shaping like hippo
in their stillness on the hill.

I watched you Sun,
your dying sung by the bird song,
dipping its pitch to midnight,
conscious of the God of
too many things.

And I wait
for the river black come,
trace my eye from the dragonflies
to the satellites’ trails,
waking to my vitamin
deficiency of dreaming.

Header photograph © Caroline Bardwell.

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