Although the air shimmers in the hot June sun,
there is coolness in the wide bend of the Cahaba,
where the river widens, slows, flattens, and bursts
into a shallow glistening sea of white Cahaba Lilies
as I float silently by in my ancient canoe.
Submerged in crystal clear water, Cahaba Lily bulbs explode
from bedrock island clusters of green reeds into spider shaped flowers.
Each flower is an exploding star which blooms only for a day,
flashing, flashing, flashing, flashing in the sun.
An old man and young boy sit invisible in shadows on an
old tree trunk extending over the river. In silent concentration
they hold silver wire snares over the water; trying to catch redhorse
sucker fish schooling along the bank. Motionless, then jerking
and yelling they throw the slimy grey suckers into a large metal bucket.
It seems strange to see men fishing from a tree without poles.
Redhorse fish still live in the Cahaba feeding
on small snails, a good indicator for good water quality.
At Hargrove Shoals you can see thousands of snails
on the rock bottom, some places so thick
you can't walk without the crunch of stepping on them.
The river runs fierce just down the hill from the old square limestone
Coosa county jail with its eight barred windows and gray steel door.
I can hear the runaway slaves singing “He's the lily of the valley.
Oh my Lord ! King Jesus in the chariot rides, Oh my Lord!
With four white horses side by side.”
I paddle my canoe upstream toward the fisherman trying not to
interrupt their harvesting of fish. We talk about the declining
numbers of fish and fresh water mussels, the danger of new dams,
bank erosion and sewage pollution. We invisibly embrace
our shared love of the river together.
Laugh if you like, but now I am dreaming I’m on the Ganges
which is flowing from Vishnu’s toe; I’m on a boat to heaven,
Bhagiratha is praying for my rebirth; I am riding on Shiva’s hair,
bathing in her waters. I am in another world.
(stanza break)
The shadows lengthen and the air cools as I drift
among the clusters of lilies. I awaken to a fluttering of flashing
iridescent dragon fly wings, iridescent greens and blues vibrating in thin air,
slim as a pencil, a solitary glider, clear sugar crystal wings,
a fairy calling me into these island clusters of reeds and flowers.
Her flight path leaves sparkling fireworks
in it’s wake. There is something beautiful in
the way she experiences the world.
There must be a dead pioneer who knew me
buried somewhere under the water.
How crazy I am to follow a fly, into the lilies,
into the underworld, into a watery labyrinth of shadows.
It’s no good choosing a middle path;
we have to risk damnation; we must follow
the white light of the dying lily.
-W Roger Carlisle
