In front of us a stream bursts

from a huddle of tall trees,

jumping from rock to rock,

side to side as it surges

towards us, there are no pools

deceptively still to slow its charge.

At a giddy height above

the flood, standing on this bridge

there is only stillness

(feel each moment prolong

itself, hear our breathing slow,

to hold each other thus needs

no words) and peace, such peace:

the world outside is a tissue

of wattle scent and sunlight,

the steady crackle of frogs,

a stream that holds us transfixed

while its current runs through our lives.