Wind worn glides
Of flowing try
Turning here,
To there, a gleam –
Long since sought
To there, a stream
Sailing empty
Through wondering sky
To subtle jetties,
Of methane air –
Riding through
Till no, till there
Notions of what
Or what may why
Under the cracked,
And deepening pool –
Meandering true
So dark, and cool
A winded wrinkle
Wrankle awry
Under a surface
Of wind swept time –
Spreads, its out
As a ragged, old sign.
Hat tip: Robert Lewis Stevenson “Looking-Glass River”