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Below the Cliff Stephen Gardner
Here ivy tendrils hang through air And attach themselves in lower places To damp rocks. Some throw air-roots Into the bank, or wrap around Rhododendron branches, growing Long and thin in the small light That filters down through the shrubs. And in spite of the water That drifts into our eyes We can see to move Across the foot of the falls, Rock to rock, leaving our prints Flat in the moss and algae, wet and shining In the afternoon. And so many voices On the other bank, calling me, Calling, as reaching out one hand, The other behind for balance, I Leap, only slightly safe, to arms That are safety, wanting to give me My balance, on the bank. |
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