A creek went to whisper in my ear
a gentle, trickling sound to hear
a sad little voice that spoke of night
that spoke of death, that spoke of light.
It told a tale of a leafy screen
that grew from gentle boughs of green
and in the spattered, dappled shade
the first of life, a fawn there laid.
and of gnarled pine’s ‘pon jutting stone
wind and branch, their intangible moan,
of mysteries deep of resounding thrum
of an older truth, of deep glen’s hum.
Then I asked the gentle flow:
Why such sorrow? I’d like to know.
And as it came to me I was appalled
for I was alone in seeing it all.
