Seven Streams by Karen Lowe

We park by the reservoir,
a living art installation
involving human beings is
far harder to manage, than
might well be imagined.

Plynlimon wet mountain
source of seven rivers,
broods over a black
reservoir, and its own
wet dreams of flood.

Those carrying acres of
multi-coloured cloth, are
not hard to spot, as they
struggle with exploding
plastic bags of satin,
smeared now in true Plynlimon colours, dried
cow pat gray and sheep
pooh, pellet black.

Shit! and yet more shit,
who forgot to bring the
blue cloth?

Blue speaks of revelation,
but clearly not today.
Dancers pirouette, spin
slip-slide on stones, as
we weigh down the cloth,
pay homage to Gormley’s
artistic, autistic piles of
stone, as we celebrate the
cold multi-coloured streams
that rise in Wales, as in
youthful arrogance, we
name afresh, re-brand the
rivers, as we call for new
generations of seers to arise.

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