Shit happens

morning mist strokes the river
as creatures stir and day begins.

a moorhen chick floats by.
charcoal-balled. lifeless.

natural causes?
misadventure?
no matter.
shit happens.

tugged by current,
snagged and jostled,
bobbing in the ripples,
floating on the river Styx.
Charon ferries his soul
to Hades and eternity.

(or moorhen heaven)

i lean against a garden fence.
rickety with age, bleached by sun.
i crane my neck to the river bend
as the fluffy charcoal ball disappears.

i’ve seen it many times before.
this seasonal sadness,
choked in river tears.

the mist lifts.

blue skies and cotton
wool clouds dance in the river. 
a fanfare of daybreak.

the sound of moorhens
fussing,
brooding,
mourning.

the river is haughty.
strong, unhurried.
full of life and indifferent to weakness.

a nonchalant nursemaid.
a deadly assassin.
a fatal watery attraction.
a sanctuary and a grave.

the moorhen chick is forgotten.
a short-lived sacrifice.
an offering to the river gods.

soon,
new life will return.
return to this river.

new life
with the wonder
and the promise of rebirth.

and death will have its say.
death will have its part to play
in this soap opera we call life.