We sit on a river bank
our bikes resting
against a tree;
Milka throwing
small pieces of branches
into the river's flow.
Some one said
you can't walk
in the same river twice,
she says,
don't know
who said it,
but some one said it.
Heraclitus,
some Greek guy said it,
I say.
She looks at me,
her eyes cow-like,
deep and sad.
What's he mean?
It's not the same water,
it moves on like our lives;
we can't stand still
no matter how much
we wish we could.
Where'd you read that?
I study her sitting there;
her hair brushed back,
tied by a ribbon;
her grey coat,
the brown and pink dress
coming to the knees,
black stockings.
Reader's Digest,
I guess.
I hate cold water;
had to wash in it
this morning
because the fire'd
gone out,
she says,
looking at
the river again.
I know,
I heard you moaning
at your mother.
She shrugs her shoulders,
continues throwing
branches in the river.
She moans at me
often enough.
But she's the parent,
that's what they do.
What would you do
if I stripped off now
and walked through
the river?
She says, smiling.
What would your mother say
if you did?
She'd not know.
If she did?
God knows;
slap me one, I guess,
but what would you do?
She asks me.
Nothing;
just watch the scene.
You wouldn't join me?
And get wet feet?
no, not me.
Spoilsport;
too cold anyway.
I open my cigarette packet
and take two out;
one for her
and one for me.
We light up
and sit musing,
the river flowing on,
slow,
moving over
small rocks and stones,
down a slight hill,
we sitting
watching its flow.
A BOY AND GIRL BY A RIVER IN 1964.