The River is lonely
it has no friends.
The mountain
naught but an acquaintance
a majestic bastion
a beautiful companion
but not an equal.

The River flows down
the Mountain
rapidly but elegantly
gently carving itself a niche
in a coarse, rough landscape
made for the tall, the bold
but not the fleeting.

The lonely River winds
shimmering, glimmering
from the top of white to the bottom
of black.
It slides effortlessly, brilliantly
yet still unnoticed by its silent
surroundings.

This River, this lonely river
moves ever
in the scorching sight of sun
or the chilling glare of moon.
It snakes, wonderfully, imperiously
slicing through rock and stone.
A vein of silver
in a grey, grey land.

And where does the river flow?
Downwards, ever downwards
through field and forest
gold and green
to the Sea.
The great Ocean
where it melts without fanfare
into blue.
That Lonely River.