The Crucible

Incessant roaring water though so fair,

It gouges ancient rock to rend the gorge

And shakes the spray that mists the riven air

To clean and purify the granite forge.

Desperate roots explore the fissured flaws 

To drink the mist, the vital draught of life.

Intrepid saplings cling to chasm bulwarks

Suspended high, secure above the strife.

Their branches build a bastion for birds.

For birds that spread the special seeds that seem,

Although of flora not yet named with words,

A healing plant apothecary`s dream.

But wait!  For power people crave a dam.

Alas, the thund’rous splashes fall so still.

The roots do shrivel, dry without the damp.

Bewildered birds must leave to find their fill

And flee to fields where famished foxes reign.

The seeds of life are scattered ne’er again,

Nor does the plant they spawned e`er find a name,

Nor seeds e`er stay the deaths of dying men.