Lines on The Occassion of a Last Love

I see the water in the white stream bed.
The water running is a sound I have heard before.
Though the phone I hold is never answered,
I know upstream they bob,
caught in the snags
and battered in the falls and rapids
waiting for the release of putrifaction.
While downstream is the last sleepy ocean.
From the stream bank of safety I survey it all.

If I was brave enough to wet my legs again,
if I threw tobacco and tin into the death white foam,
would the colour of winter melt away one last time?