A River Runs Around It

There’s an island, rock-rimmed
where I rest,
look up into the pines
whispering to me in the breeze,
and water laps my shores
calling me
with the song of currents.

Islands run deep,
the rocks above only crest
the ones below,
those dark ones, knife-edged
with old wounds
best left alone
if island life is to flow
in calming channels.

But the river runs around it,
in deeper currents
lapping at my shores,
calling me away
to set out, in sunlight
at the early pink of dawn.

A river runs past it,
to newer islands,
peninsulas,
continents,
flowing downstream,
without ceasing,
towards the sea.