Where The Creek Used To Run (rev)

In ash-fine silk-like sand that spread
after the flood and ahead of the wild
weeds claim on the old stream bed;

before needle phalanx sprang in drying
hollows to march on stones marooned;
in bones of thistle-down we ran, played

where the creek used to run in olden days
– fed in a heat of mid-summer dreams
on juvenile feasts of imaginings.

Trunk of a sad yellow willow slowly
dying, gnarled roots denied relief in
stony ground, stood mute beside

the crumbling bank, watched in staid
silence – uncomplaining, maintained
poignant dignity while we played.

In this khaki valley scented with sweet
and flawless green we measured our
pleasures in a joy peace engendered.

We quarrelled, collaborated, dug rebellious
rocks from the dry stream bed, shifted silt
with Tonka toys, emulated a perfect world.
© 27 June 2006, I.D. Carswell