High Waters' Tarn Poem by David Taylor

The small lake seated at the top of the mountain,
what is there?

Few climb the steep slopes with hope, to drink the highest water,
why go there?

Overflowing in the rain its waters pour down, reach out below,
and join the silver lakes on which each day we float our dreams,
is it not here?

And as the first rays of early morning sun seep and flow above what seeks to bind,
in appearance, its confine,
it glints with gold.

In noonday sun a perfect round reflection shines and in its place most high,
all movements kept at bay,
what is there?

Look closely, draw near, so near, the music of nights stars; still, sing within,
quell thoughts' wind.

Clouds' images spin past on deep stillness undisturbed, touch not, not heard,
and as we focus to a point, all confines, just dust of mortal earth.

Silent, unnoticed, source of all that flows below.