River Deua Reflections by Robin Brown Your mirror pool here in the wild Bendethera bush, well found and framed, the lens light has stilled in the shallow youth of all your ages. That finder, when this way he chanced, had three lenses; two in his head, one in his hand. The light met them all. The light that bounced from the blocks of stone, the light from the bone white slope of the fallen tree, the light flicked from the glass static water, and the light filtered up, where the mirror permits, from the pebbles resting in their riverbed stopped now until the next storm stirs them on in their seaward roll. You first saw my chum and me farther on your age-old way, way down toward the sea. Through your quieter vale we rode our boyhood bikes well, well before our years were at a score. Of the memories that had sedimented in my young head, though now I find but traces, I know the quiet places, like the one this picture’s paused, that in my whirlpool thinking caused a halting and my own reflecting. My babbling burnie infancy was then not long behind. Now to its slowing estuary too soon my life will wind. But in this instant and that from now just fleeing, and yet the one still coming, all at this single once, are all moments of your being; your thousand hillside springing birthings, your childish singing, splashing, falling tumblings, your murmuring, mature meanderings and your terminal tidal tussle with the Southern Sea. And there is your finding of all your fellows, flowing from this land and all the others in one great confluence gracing, with this global flood, our earth its lifeblood.