AT THE FALLS
by Chris Wallace-Crabbe
Baroque, white, delicate,
The lacy water sprawls
Across the waterfall,
Abandoned to mere fate.
Here with a sudden lunge
It strikes unyielding rock
And art’s cold passions mock
That dizzy downward plunge.
What is a waterfall
But our tensions manifest?
Deep in that rocky breast
Who knows what echoes call?
Copyright © 2009 by Chris Wallace-Crabbe.