The River Wharfe After Much Rain

The power.

Yes - the power of the Wharfe.

Even after only 12 hours of hard rain

The river is now roaring.

It's in a manic hurry.

To get to the sea?

Or just for the joy of moving?

Whatever the case, it outruns feeble joggers.

And never stops for breath.

Depending on the rocks beneath,

Its flow is smooth.

At other times, rugged.

The rocks are smashed,

Or smoothly passed over.

The river can be both smooth,

And jaggedly grasping,

It its speedy flow.

Nothing can stop it in this mood.

Its energy can't be restrained.

It has no other outlet.

It has to move.

It must keep moving.

The Wharfe widdens it girth,

And deepens itself.

The currents are now dangerous.

In summer, you can cross at multiple points -

Now you can't cross at any point.

If you did, it would swallow you up

And spit you out farther down.

Where the river is tight

The water's density and force

(Like that of a singularity)

Reaches a climax of foam and spit.

See that fog of foam.

The spewings of its turbulent innards.

One wonders where it all comes from -

The water, that is.

How can one night's downpour

Result in this fierce flow?

Can this single river

Take all the night had to offer?

Was it the sole target

Of that relentless rain?

The Wharfe takes on many forms.

It's all down to the substance and shape

Of the land it moves through.

Its barriers are transitory

And spillovers are frequent.

Yet it always keeps its outline

And nature as a river.