Sunday, May 03, 2009

The Brook

Brooks run brown, where I come from;
The pine needles make them so.
I loved to go to my special one,
And sit and watch it flow.
The white foam bubbled all around,
As it tumbled over the rocks.
Moss crawled softly up the sides,
Of this most enchanting spot.

I'd throw pebbles in and listen,
To the kerplonking sound they made,
Beneath the fluffy Hemlocks,
In that shady little glade.
Of this very special spot,
I have sweet memories.
Of sitting by that little broook,
As it headed for the sea.

Mary J. Stevens

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