What is this water, really?




Being thirsty, the good feel of water

drunk from a bottle in gulps, thoughtlessly.

A little later urinating, washing with scented soap

and rinsing.  Damp hands rubbing a moist eye.

The sharp taste of lemon, the flow of saliva

A kiss, the taste of that mouth, the misty breath mingled with mine.

The sweet wet longing of desire and the damp rest later.

Rain on the window, driven to ice on the twigs and leaves.

The kettle boiling, hot tea.  Boiled potatoes.

Ice on the mountain top melting slowly and feeding a stream, a river

and then the mighty flow, pushing on uncontrolled and uncontrollable,

say what you will, on to the sea.

And now the saltiness of it, tides, waves that rise in some far place

beyond imagining.  Here they come to strike cold the heart of the captain,

of the crew who have no choice, no escape.

Or blue and begnin, calm and vast with only a swell to beguile, to soothe,

to wipe away that terror, the fine spray cast aside by the great vessel and the straight wake.

Clouds or hurricanes, tunnel spouts of water, blizzards, lightning storms

or irrigation channels, bringing life to parched fields.

Wells, deep and cool where magic frogs or monsters live, where the butter is kept,

where trysts are kept, where brave souls enter the underworld.

Swamps where earth and water mate, breed, mingle together and all nature flocks

and teems as nowhere else.

The Polar caps, besieged as they are, retreating glaciers, disappearing seas.

the tap, the shower, the toilet.

May I have a glass of water, please.




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