Frank Ian Bowen

Rookie (23 May 1952 / Portsmouth, England)

Waterfalls - Poem by Frank Ian Bowen

Listen to that waterfall. It ripples along that old stone wall.
A sound that can spell bind all those who hear.
It’s a noise that will never be associated with fear
That rippling sound conjures up mental views
Of deep forests, steep hills and worn walking shoes
Where did that water first come from d’you think?
From a cloud, and ocean, perhaps even a sink!
And as sun beats upon it, it turns into gas
Rises up in the sky, makes a cloud, that’s a fact
Those clouds are then blown all over the world
Until meeting a hill causes billows and swirls
The temperature falls so that gas becomes ice
It gets heavy and drops like fat grains of rice
And as they get closer to ground level, see
The ice becomes raindrops, that fall heavily
They’re soaked by the ground through which water’s cleaned
‘Till it finds a rock layer within which it’s deemed
Water can’t pass, so it puddles on top
Forms underground lakes and streams for the crops
Eventually they flow out of hillsides as springs
Gathering momentum from slopes, which then rings
Out that tinkling, rippling sound
That a waterfall makes as it passes o’er ground.


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Poem Submitted: Thursday, May 12, 2011

Poem Edited: Friday, May 13, 2011


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