Clay to be specific —
Not at all like the rivers of home
On their run down to the Pacific —
Except when they’re in horrid flood
And spoiled with cruelty and mud.
On the Thai side was Gotoma,
Statuesque, all gold and ethereal.
Across in Laos was another world —
Sky-scraping palaces of the material.
A shard of green wilderness
Splintered out of Myanmar,
As if the land itself sought to escape
But was blocked, unable to get too far.
From the embankment on Thailand’s shore,
I watched the long tail boats propel,
While I thought of days of purple haze and fiery hell,
When this dragon, this mother water, was poisoned by war.
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