Cargo

She sinks to her knees at the edge of the riverflow,
hidden in the tawny reeds; sees the roots in the still water,
reaches her hand in, cups her palm, watches the silt rise,
wondering, “What is exalted, if not this?”

Upstream a washerwoman, hidden, whispers,
and her daughter, hidden, watches.
The day is blue and lucid and there is no one but
the wary women, neither father nor oppressor.

In each of them a rising, gathering thought:
“It is all I surely know, this river; it is greater than any man,
any land, any fear or care. It is all I need, this river,
I will return here always.”

The sun touches its apex; the washerwoman bows
and lets go her vessel. All the women lift their gaze:
A basket of reeds, black pitch in its warp and weft,
drifting, out of place, squalling, inexorable.

~~

Doug Logan, 2018