Sitting on the damp grass
by the river of my youth,
more a stream
to tell the truth, though as a child
it seemed bigger.
I’ve shrunk it in growing,
but still the gleam
carries magic from afar to far
away. I like how
it’ll never stop flowing
will always be here
when I’m gone; home, city-bound,
or dead, it’ll still be going,
always cool, wet, fish-full
and refreshing.
rolling small and obscure
under mature willows
through unremarkable fields.
Appreciated by dog walkers
and their wet dogs,
cider-quaffing pot-smoking
village idiots will lounge and litter its banks.
Small Huckleberry boys
will always scamper across
its plank bridges – fishing net in hand,
sunhat on head,
hunting the clawed monster crayfish
of the muddy bed.
And the occasional dreamer
quiet and aloof,
will sit, and take peace
from its ceaseless, winding,
sea-searching movement through the fields.
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