Of a Spate

A trickling brook ran through a mead,

Its waters clear and cold.

It wound throughout the golden grass

To forge a pathway bold.

And forge a pathway bold it did,

Not only in the mead,

But through the forest, and the rocks

And bogs forever dead.

And stories this small streamlet knows:

Forgotten ancient tales.

Of love and war and hate and more

And everyone who sails.

And also unrecorded things,

Things that history lost.

For often the unwritten things

Are jewels of greatest cost.

Though sea and river large may tell

It that they are better,

Our stream just smiles, gurgles a laugh

As carefree as a bird.

Because the brooklet know secrets 

That it will never tell,

And stories worth their weight in pearls

This creek will never sell.

This creek, humble, unsung, unknown,

Content to stay that way,

Deserves more respect that it gets

On any given day.

This unnamed streak of silver-blue,

With waters sleek and starred,

Has travelrd hundreds of miles and more

And flows through my backyard.