Where The Creek Used To Run

In ash-fine silt that spread like sand
after the flood and before the wild weeds
claimed the old stream bed;
before thistle phalanxes sprang
from the dying mud to invest hollows
between abandoned river stones; in affluent heat
of an endless summer of immature dreams;
in a valley redolent with green and khaki hills
we engendered our magical room where
the creek used to run.
The gnarled trunk of a sad, yellow willow
slowly dying, its roots denied relief
in the stony ground, stood guard beside
the crumbling bank where we played,
watched in staid silence, a sentry whose
sense of duty was pungent quiet.
And under the insistent sun
we quarrelled, collaborated and dug
rebellious rocks, shifted silt with tonka toys,
emulating the perfect world we lived in.
© I.D. Carswell