THE RIVER’S LULLABY

Meg Farrell

To grow up by The River is to expect uncertainty. The depth and the pace and the chatter is known to morph overnight; each morning anew and to fall asleep hearing out for the murmur is to learn a language only the myths still believe exists. It is human and soothes in time to its gentle berceuses. To listen is to uncover that quiet pattern of dubiety.
            The Winter urticates and puppeteers a stillness that remains unparalleled beyond The River, with a solemn sleep in the low melody once heard so loud. Yet Spring arrives in a babble of mischief without a note of warning. The River always erupts in a laughter so free that only the meadow children know its song. It is a surreptitious invitation to join the choir when Summer’s olive branch taps at the door. The River never is inclined to deny her, who could? The River falls for her seasonal tricks of light every time and her entry kicks the door open wide. Wide enough for the brittle breath of Autumn’s peace. She becomes no longer a bittersweet reminiscing of colour and dark nights, for her presence arrives on the stage as an anti-hero sculpted from copper.
            The River’s dawn-fixated memory abides to these laws and fails to avoid the Dance of the Season’s Parade. It is the only constant tune. The River knows as well as you do that the unavoidable arrives quicker with each coming year, but when the butterfly batted her wings somewhere over Greece in times before the Gods existed as stone, The River should have known to expect carnage. The River should have sung a message of woeful counsel.
            But The River became a foe that morning. The morning that the police arrived with nets and dogs. How was I supposed to have grown to expect that? So, farewell to The River is what I’ll hum instead.