On a recent holiday to north Wales, and on our way to he summit of Mount Snowden on the single track mountain railway, we paused to allow a train descending to pass, and I gazed at the towering mountains and deep valleys, and watched a tiny stream on its way to the sea. I marvelled that all this landscape had been formed by tiny streams like that one millions of years ago, carving this majestic scene. By the time we had reached the summit an hour later, I had formed this poem in my mind, and had made myself as that young stream racing excitedly to the sea, with all the exuberance of a new young life.
My song was born in a crystal pool,
as my glacier mother wept.
My snow and ice, no longer cool,
melted and I was swept.
My song at first was a 'pebble' sound,
as I carried those friends with me.
They danced along, upon the ground,
as we played towards the sea.
Across high meadows, still with snow,
being kissed by drinking hares.
Leaping salmon, then diving low,
avoiding hungry bears.
Through dead woods, so white and still,
carving snowdrifts from the banks.
My song now sounds, oh! quite shrill,
as snowdrops nod their thanks.
I'm bringing life to all I pass,
the stately elk who plods.
I hear a vixen say to cubs,
"It's the nectar of the gods.”
I swerve round boulders, green and swift,
strength gaining all the time.
Broken branches above me drift,
in my currents foaming rime.
My gentle song is now a roar,
down rapids leaping high.
Such excitement as my wave tops soar,
as if to reach the sky.
And soon I'm joined by others,
all racing to the sea,
and we streaming band of brothers,
all joyous to be free.
Careless hurtling over waterfalls,
laughing through the mist.
Shouting at the canyon walls,
with all those rainbows kissed.
And so at last I reach the sea,
trying to join those adults grand.
But those massive waves keep ignoring me,
as they crash against the land.
I soon learn of the goddess moon,
as we swim towards her light,
but come the dawn, oh so soon,
the sun pulls us from her sight.
This sun I'm told, this life will end,
and I'll rise as a ghostly mist,
midst thunder, and the light’nings rend,
compressed like a darkened fist.
I pray that on some mountain I'll fall,
as snow or new born rain,
to be wrapped in mother glaciers shawl,
and then be born again.
(This poem was published by Clan Magazine in issue 115, December 2010
CLAN is the National Association of Laryngectomy Clubs spelt backwards.)