Sitting on the ghat,
folded legs
spine straight.
Gazing at the flowing river,
thinking that sacred waters
must answer sacred questions.
But they recoil from the answer.
From being shown that they are the river–
a river which forgets that which happened,
while remembering events that never did.
They crave a gift of clarity.
But the only path to understanding
is a backwards plunge into an abyss
in a moment of sacrificial madness.
By B Gourley in poem, Poetry on June 1, 2017.
