The Stream

S. Kilbey

Appears On:

The Stream

Narration (unofficial)

in the black of night
in the crack of dawn
in the dead of time
when moonlight pours through the branches
when mercy is scarce
a stallion appears at the stream
a white horse representing... what?
freedom?
power?
brute speed?
the stallion drinks at the stream and smells the air
the stream with its icy waters
the stream with its blind transparent fish
the stream running over golden sand
the stream with its silent eels
the stream with its broken moonlight
the stream in the leaves' shadows
the stream where the lovers drank
the stream which zigzags through a field
the stream in saxony or thessaly
the stream that feeds a river
a trickle that feeds a deluge
a vein in the earth
a course meandered
the water reflects the stars
the stars so far away
away from the darkened fields of some peasant time
rough days indeed
days of henbane picked by a full moon
days of mandrake and belladonna
days of mayhem and mildew
the stream is untouched by progress
every thorn and bramble remain the same
the stream endures
a witch appears to drink and fill her cup
an old wise woman escaped from the bishop's clutches
a mid-wife and a knower of herbal lore
she skulks in the shadows of its pools
anxiously she darts out into the open
ashamed for a good lady of her years to live in secret here
in the wood between worlds
where none are living yet none yet dead
in a painting, in a poem
in a little strip of music the stream of words flows on
cascading wildly in some mental highland
freshly melted from thin air
the stream of thoughts
the stream of traffic
the stream of life
the stream you sweep
the stream is delicious
the stream is clean and crystal clear
the witch goes back into the midnight blue
she lives in a hut near the stream
they'll never find her here
they'll never burn her
she'll pass away peacefully
and her body will fade into the earth
and the creatures will remember
the woodland things, the fauns, etc.
the stream slips
the stream runs away
the stream enters another country
the stream is yours and mine
but i don't like the night tonight
but i don't like the moon
and i don't like the soft sounds off in the woods
and i don't like the night's one thousand eyes
and i don't like the isolated moments
i don't trust the stream
it does not care about us
it runs on chattering to any who will listen
it mutters to the reeds
it whispers to the wild winter winds
it gurgles in summery fields just before harvest
it rolls down ferny slopes and dew drops plops
the stream in a dream
a stream of consciousness swollen with drugs
pumped up by the windy rain and full of tiny sharks
and holiday memories
the stream
it does seem