My father was the riverbank

A sculptor of perfection shaped my being, fashioned
from a broken shard captured in a lucid dream of
comfort and acceptance, cradled in the shimmered
stream of weighted consciousness, aware my father was
the riverbank, my mother was the water.

I am a daughter of the dreamworld where the purest
visions of the future and the past combine in lucent
memoirs, refined reflections from the timeless pools
before the ancient sages deigned to say my father was
the riverbank, my mother was the water.

You ask me where I learned these things; I tell
you here beside the riverbank, amongst the reeds
and in the margins of the water, here I listened to
their vibrant laughter, giving thanks my father was
the riverbank, my mother was the water.

My mother bore me in a flooded dream that raged
between the ravaged banks, breaking free to
swamp the timid plains, tearing trees from rocky mounds,
a swathe of liquid slaughter, amazed my father was
the riverbank, my mother was the water.

The stream returned again to flow between the muddy
banks, nurtured and replete with sustenance
and greening strength, and quiet and peace engendered
trust, and thus I knew forever that my father was
the riverbank, my mother was the water.
© I.D. Carswell