Sitting by the Brook,
Flowing under the bridge,
With intent, I look,
On the flow from the ridge.
It has it's own sound,
It is careless and free,
Not a taint or bound,
Along the course I see.
Whatever I throw,
Either Heavy or light,
It lifts it and flows,
Or glide a little right.
We may have dimples,
With laughs for all to binge.
If hurts and squabbles,
Would go under the bridge?
------------
Vittorio_topaz
YOU ARE READING
THE BLUE
Poetry...just words, with more meaning than length can tell, just like the heart. We call them poems, but I tag it, 'the blue'...
