To my lovely dark river, where are you? I thought I knew the way to the river.... and yet the fog of your displeasure blinds me. I am parched for want of you and yet your tide recedes, your black and lush waters out of sight, let alone reach. How often have I plunged into the coolness of you? How often have you dragged me under to thrash at our mutual pleasure and passion? Oh trust, I pray, that I would never entrap thee as some greedy fallen tree might to make a trapped pond of thee. I do not seek to direct your course, but pray, do not deny me thy company. My world is dry and barren without thee. And if I have gone infield, in a wood of secrets and surprises, trust never would the blooms I might lay about on your surface are anything but an offering, and would do thee no harm. But now I come with tribute and worship to an empty bed- the river has moved. The wooded banks I thought I knew so well seem unfriendly, and I am alone. Return to me, flood over me, rush and churn with fury, or spring and flow with delight- the torrent of your passions I would welcome in any form, rather than be cut off entirely. Never would I hurt thee, and without you- I am wasting to a husk, my throat too dry to talk.