The power of a river
cannot be contested by man,
whether by warship under sail,
or steam, harnessed for grain,
dammed for energy and commerce,
or forgotten and neglected.
In winter, the sun shines on the river
from over the bridge to the west,
and the mirror-glass-still water is broken only by its rocks.
On a summer eve, those rocks break white caps
as the force of nature rushes past, and a man in a kayak
journeys through downtown, a block away.
In wartime, these waters rushed past a foundry,
where hundreds of young women gave their lives making bullets,
and armies and navies battled for control of the capital city.
And the water rushes farther,
to where there was no Virginia,
to when Powhatan was understood by all,
the power of a river is in the life of its green algae,
and herons, and sturgeons as they pass,
struggling upstream to spawn where they were born.

Elliott Martin is a graduate student, writer, historian, musician, and poet living in Richmond, Virginia. His writing has appeared in The Copperfield Review, Artemis Journal, JerryJazzMusician.com, and elsewhere. Originally from Southwest Virginia, he has lived in Richmond since 2019.
Please note: Poetry is compressed to fit smart phone screens. If you are reading this poem on a phone screen, please turn your screen sideways to make sure that you are seeing correct line breaks for this poem.