Peter Wilder - Under the River

Twisting, turning, weaving, surging,
Ever onwards to the sea.
Grinding, scouring, carving, gorging,
Forging valleys, shifting scree.

Rushing, falling, flowing, swirling,
Floating, debris downward hurled.
Banked by trees and slaten hills,
But who would know your underworld.

Where pillars rise like sentinels,
In grand cathedrals made of stone,
And whispers echo on and on,
Off dripping walls like shining bone.

Passageways that bend and narrow,
Fear and terror show their face.
Pathways open, dwindle, vanish,
Disappear without a trace.

Then suddenly a chamber near,
Though small and filled with damp and cold
Is pouring forth with liquid light,
And all that glitters is not gold.

Peter Wilder

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/under-the-river-2/