The Water’s Way* is not a patient man.
More like a fickle lover, who cannot
make up his mind and choose a mate,
but washes down the path of lowest strain.
And nor is Rock as solid as it sounds,
Whose meteoric birth and silty death
are but a cycle much like water’s constant
churn from cloud to rain to sea and ice.
“Upon this rock I will build my church,”
as Jesus spoke to Peter, Petra, Rock.
This metaphoric church is built on nothing
more than future sand or fire scalded
molten magma ooze – a metamorphic
church as surely as the protolithic
sandstone to a hardened quartzite sets.
The Water’s Way is formed by Rocks, and Rocks,
though prominent, are merely islands on
a plastic sea, and though they mark our way,
and stud our maps, they are but passing ships,
as transient as stars, whose constellations
sway and drift appart upon the sky
as eons pass. And so, our Gods no more
than drifters are, and no more patient than
the passing waves.
Paul Guernsey Player © 2019/02/07
“Now as I looked down, the receding water revealed a wealth of complex shapes where the rugged promontory is wearing away bit by bit, as water works its infinitely patient way through rock.”
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