The Cataract
A Prose Poem
by P.H. Wise

I led her by the hand along the path of dust. Her eyes shone bright in the gathering dusk, and a warm thrill shot through me. We’d crossed the dusty field by light of day, but our path led into the forest, and it was long. We scrabbled over root and under bough; we grew tired, our faces smudged with dirt. I’d found our destination days ago; the sight of it had silenced me. The forest had opened suddenly upon a dark pool, deep and wide. A grand old oak tree grew upon the banks; its branches cast long shadows on the water. A cataract fed the pool, and its siren song had held me spellbound for hours.

Now - together - we stepped out of the forest. She beheld the pool, resplendent in the light of the setting sun, but she was all I could see – all else was lost in the haze of my affection.

She looked thoughtful as she considered the cataract, and the hypnotic pool it fed.

“But it’s just a waterfall!” she said.