Bitter with the Swede

A name that conjures ease
and carefree thoughts 
in stark contrast 
to the raging battle
waged beneath.

Harboring dangerous things.
Spider trees and periwinkles
sharp as spears and broken shards
and moccasins whose other name
is Death.
Skating across the glassine surface.

But my end almost came
from a pitiful excuse for rapids.
Water that could just barely
be called White.
Shenandoah, 
you tried to consume me.

Caught between two fairly insignificant,
paltry, yet immobile stones
that might as well have been
Charybdis and Scylla.
That turned our lazy retreat,
our blissful excursion,
into defiance of the liquid tomb
which sought to enshroud me.

And now?
Isn't Life that much meatier?

From 'Cigarettes, Whiskey and Armageddon 
(Musings on Death, Grief and Loss)
© 2019