This woodland stream could be a small English river,
it dibbles and dabbles, it meanders, and has the air
of an old water way, one that never saw the need
to rush or gush.
The small ripples pace themselves; a sepia rivulet
that tugs at a nutrient silt, carrying it down gently
to green pastures.
In autumn the fallen leaves add ocher flotillas
that sail into valley mists, never to return.
April showers refresh the brook,
it waltzes between tufted hillocks,
glides almost giddily between sky and earth.
If the path of the water flow has a name
it is known only to grazing cattle,
that drink of it,
and the meadow lark
that hovers high above the little beck
to sing of its native wandering ways.
Categories:
dibbles, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Where is the clear clouds
As the storms has set
Where is the stormy shores
The lands are now wet
All tunas view warm clearing the whales
Those dibbles swiftly, calmly, quietly they race
As the seas roughly endurance efforts swims
So desolation death has come upon
the smaller fish for they have been eaten
By those the whales that have lead now been fed
12/8/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020
Categories:
dibbles, analogy, environment, fish,
Form: Free verse