Even so far from the river’s banks,
she washes over everything.
Men drown in the depth of her eyes,
and I join them without struggle.
Distant floods surge with dark lines,
forms, shapes, sensation –
And she is everything, everywhere.
A storm that carries the sand’s warmth and cool.
A flower’s scent before it is cut,
abandoning petal’s to the writer’s desk.
The expressive parts, separate and small,
flowing through a market street,
crafted and then sung to the world
over the steam of black tea.
She is everything, everywhere, and
to where all colours are drawn.
Even so far from the resting thoughts.