A tiny little stream flows so very peacefully on its long meandering, rippling way,
Trees along long grassy flowered banks, where birds sing songs and children play,
Then, as by magic, trough the dark green summer leaves, the sunlit gold rods fall,
And beautiful ducks and geese glide motionless by, heads high by ivy-colored walls.
But many years ago the stream flowed dangerously fast past old cottage windowpanes,
Bubbling froth, full of importance, turning mill wheels for grinding wheat grains,
Bridges used to strain from its mighty power, bends chiseled into rigid straightness,
Rushing water was feared, people stayed away from the banks because of its greatness,
When the rains fell it burst banks and flooded fields, the villages, and soaked towns,
A wild beast that had to be chained, concrete banks were built, before someone drowns,
Now it’s old and beaten, it limps slowly, flowing unhurriedly past the beds of reeds,
Occasionally when the rain is heavy it slips slowly out onto the quiet water-mead's.
Copyright © Terry Trainor