Part of my life I lived
a tributary to
Gudenå, the river;
bohemian witness
dedicated artist,
stoic, pouring my grief
into its quiet water;
unquiet days of waiting
offering nothing but harm.
A gently salt rivulet,
creeping through seasonal
trees; copper-orange, gold,
lime-green and apple-dark;
returned with my tears.
Or waterfall, crashing
heartbreak into passing
ripples from the ancient
long forgotten railbridge;
returned with my tears.
Gudenå received my grief
into her broad, but short
stretch of riverbed, wound
away without looking back.