The Creek
I long to hear the wandering rill;
its gentle song as it wanders past land.
Finding strength--so soon lost to a hill.
Meanders only creeks understand.
Deep in dreams, its music beckons still.
Beside the creek, bloomed tangled meadow
grass was so high it reached to our knees.
A perfect place for children to grow--
midst four o'clocks and lost apple trees,
and the creek's soft, iridescent glow.
Like the creek, reaching end of its run,
we each chased youthful, long-ago dreams.
Childhood disappeared in morning sun.
So lost in shadows now that it seems
but a daydream just recently spun.
October 25, 2022
Copyright © Ann Peck | Year Posted 2022
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