not this-then-that, not either-or,
no mixture. Two things can be true.
The hills were clouds and the mist was a shore.
The Severn was water, the water was mud
whose eddies stood and did not fill,
the kind of water that’s thicker than blood.
The river was flowing, the flowing was still,
the tide-rip the sound of dry fluttering wings
with waves that did not break or fall.
We were two of the world’s small particular things.
We were old, we were young, we were no age at all,
...
From Severn Song
for Philip Gross
