There it flowed,Mostly dry today for its lazy dreams,
A channel they'd call overgrown and bold,
As the lines etched into thy brow,
Village on the edge of forgotten,
Moody slough do not drown the adventure,
True beauty is for this small water sketch,
Pretty heron with flashes of blue primary feathered gloss,
Muskrats scurry just below her breasts,
We must make hast for this place to rest,
And when the surge travels once again,
Fast to the tide and eddies to the west,
It is the straights of water and journeys beyond,
Always quiet Burkeville with its sloughs all around.
No comments:
Post a Comment