Across the bleached stepping stones,
river down to a soundless trickle, lazy pools
lukewarm in the shade, we speak of the rains
that flooded the canyon last summer,
trace the high water-mark by driftwood
sticks high above our heads, a tangle
in branches of a linden like the nest
of some great bird - eagle, or peregrine falcon
we've seen riding the thermals in pairs
above the cliffs, four, skyward, circling
into azure further than the eye could see,
or maybe a crane, last glimpsed with fox
in the fresco of a tiny church. Black,
the magnesium line stains limestone walls
way up so that even now a tumult rages
and we are treading the Reka river-bed,
hands loosening our boots while we float
free, water-sprites in the chasm of a deep rush,
our hair standing on end, amidst a melee
of drowned debris, branches of morello
and plum, berries of wild fruit, stalks
of flowering cyclamen, lizard, snake
and wolf, all swept past the broken mill-
wheel, through the gorge mouth, down and down
through timeless caves, where only this
river flows, coursing into the underworld.