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.
