My Father Was The Riverbank (rev)

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

I am a dream-world daughter born where
purest past and future visions coalesce in
lucent memoirs, bright reflections beamed
from timeless pools before our 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 melodic 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 again returned 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.
© 2006, I.D. Carswell