Untitled #29

river of my childhood
with every springtime flood
the river washes away
our footbridge
washes over the fields
right up to the orchard
every spring the
rising waters
also wash away
a newborn baby
wrapped in rags
you can hear the
whimpering
in the evening
barely audible
floating by
the baby of a servant girl,
a washer woman,
slow, plain, of few words
to have a look
we would all run there after school
but what we found was
a bundle of dirty rags
between the reeds
river of my childhood
you wash away all secrets