The Visitors
 

 The Visitors

The river takes a strangers stand,
a shaman passing though
a strangers land.
Its age is wise in anger and glory,
sweeping storms in concrete grey and racing fury.
Its silence roars in its masters' name
its passing is as old as storms
when old was young
and then wind was angry.
Time is lefi far behind the fall
in thunder clouds and driving rain,
slipping through this strangers land,
the invisible walls of ice and snow.
The seasons stand and watch it blow,
its endless voice riding on a
wild horse
through History's canyons
in a timeless story....
and those who watch and wait
hold the key to human fate.

Michael Robinson
artist/poet