POINTS OF VIEW<br > Even now， women bend to rivers<br >Or to wells; they scoop up life and offer it<br >To men or to their children， to their elders，<br >To blistered cooking pots. Heavy with light，<br >And the brief mosaics of the world，<br >Water is carried home. Even now，<br >Women bend to see themselves in rivers<br >Or catch unsteady faces in buckets drawn<br >From wells. And water sucks them in，<br >Catching the wild geometry of the soul<br >Tossing it onto a plane. The wells<br >Are brimming with women s fluid faces;<br >The rivers are alive with women s hands.<br >Reflections savoured for a while， then gone.<br > From up here， what can I know of water?<br > I catch it tamed from metal Spouts encased<br > In quiet glass， contoured in porcelain.<br > I compartmentalize the beast in ice，<br >Then serve it， grinning， to distant friends.<br >What do I know of water? Tomorrow<br >I must go again to find it. I will swim<br >In rivers thick with time， permanent as eyes<br >Of sleepy crocodiles. I will watch women<br >In slow genuflections ease water<br >Into round bowls. The river-blinded boys<br >With jellied eyes transparent in the sun<br >Will look at me. Children will jump from element<br >To element making paths through air to water，<br >Shooting diamond-drops along trajectories<br >Too long for me to measure. "This is water，"<br >They will tell me. This intense immersion.<br >A new baptism free of metaphor<br >Will be mine. Water will be water，<br >And I， a newly-evolved fish， will hear<br >The aquabatic rippling of gills.<br ><br >