Over Yonder

Over yonder the little stream

Where once I used to play

Or sit upon its banks to dream

Like years, has seeped away

The frolic of the water-fall

Is but a sluggish drool

Where cattails drink its umber gall

And reeds the remnant pool

Over yonder the willow tree

That leaned, like daring child

Across the stream, is history

It’s grave, overgrown and wild

And over yonder the little girl

That wandered on its shore

Watches her own wee daughter twirl

Across the dreamer’s floor

Over yonder the little stream

Where swallows dive and dip

Revives the echo of a dream

In moments as they slip

Silent; the ebb of subtle tide

Flowing toward a sea

Where Time relinquishes its stride

In vast eternity

© Janet Martin 

...a few weeks ago I took the little guys to the creek where I loved to wander and play as a child. It was bitter-sweet, this vaguely familiar yet strangely foreign place. I recall my grandfather commenting as we took him to a place he used to work at that 'it just isn't like it used to be'...a four-lane highway ran through the 'place he was looking for'. I remember feeling sorry for him and wondering what that would feel like ...slowly I am beginning to understand.

When we were kids the cattle still roamed through streams eating all the over-growth on the banks etc... that is now illegal because they are concerned about the quality of our drinking water...e coli, and other bacteria.. Many creeks are now over grown with brush.