The river, the rock and the boat

It was another of those days when I sat by the river
Or maybe it wasn’t, life’s some clearer sliver.
For today I had no company,
Just my imagination and thought’s quiver.

Today none of my companions turned up,
Alone my thoughts began to gallop.
And I saw the river like I had never before,
Both as a frigid statue and a horse sans stirrup.

It is both fixed and in a way transitory,
So hard to give it a proper allegory.
It has been stuck here for ages,
And for ages it has flowed like a never ending story.

It has been shaped by the earth it flows through,
And it has shaped the earth it has flown in too.
Who controls what I cannot say,
Like our life and our action’s brew.

Does our life shape our actions?
Or is it the other way around?
Or maybe it’s the rock and river story
Each shaping other, both restrained and both unbound.

The real thing is never what you wanted to buy,
Part forged by your will’s hammer, part shaped by milieu’s die.
Even after years your efforts might seem futile,
But see the change in your curt life, bird’s eye.

As I wonder if my life is the rock or the river
I see a fishing boat in the middle quiver.
The brook trying to crush the mighty vessel
And the tiny boat asking something from its mighty giver.

And then all these three things I juxtapose,
And about them, think about a writing a prose.
The river, the rock and the boat,
All entwined eternally and everyone flows.