Teetering on Edges

Make sure you don’t miss out on this beautiful poem Teetering on Edges’. The author is unknown for this poem – it featured in our open mic night during National Poetry Day. If this is your poem and you’d like to claim it – please get in touch and let us know who you are!

We will post a new poem each week, so keep checking for updates! Please send any works you would like published to domore@visionrcl.org.uk

Teetering on Edges


A river singing

and burbling over small settlements of stone,

dancing its froth around pebble eyots,

brushing past whistling grasses stalking their plot

with enduring, resilient strength

bubbles rise to greet our air

       mixing our daily lives with its watery, travelling silt


Does it push

 or does it pull with might?

The water, drawing, and with its own breath,

              prancing, laughing, chatters along in sweeps and ripples that

              gather in the oneness of the river over the tumbling rocks,


own take from far-off secrecies;

joined, enjoined, dammed:

dammed becausing pace, enjoining volume, and joined

               by forces that




                                      Blown up from surfaces


heaped into clouds


                                                      A part of this river has been carried beyond

                                                                                                                                    my realm of dreaming



Somewhere, land has risen



Somewhere, this transformed waters have been called upon to descend again

descending under the guise of variety.


                                     Swift in transition: languid drizzle,

                                or a mean shower of rain,

                             or harsh in a storm

                                            like a torrent in energised wave


in verve.

in concert with

              earth and fire and air


         with the emotions we procure, that we process

that we spew, like you

                         with your head of steam,


you, with your cool underbelly,

                              wizened by bearded zeal,

or Aunt Petunia at the age of eighty

leaping and skipping

                                   over puddles

with a laughing grandson who loves his wellies.

We breathe it, love it, eat it, sneeze it,

waste it, need it, pipe it, curse it, have it, store it:

Yet, even so, we even argue over it.


So many things to so many beings

And qualitious in the very nature it creates.

It teeters and wavers on the edge of yet another form.

Today it dribbles from the end of my nose;

it feels as though this should be October.

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