The West Kill

The brook never dries,
That is its promise.
"As long as there's skies,
I run on."

Clear and cold,
rocks cup and hold
nature's gifts to ponder.

Blue heron stands
still as a staff,
mink never stops
its "wander".

Red leaves are caught,
they tumble and play,
a wonderful gift,
this water ballet.

Brook thoughts drift peacefully
over joys of the past
of grace and times,
that memory holds fast.



I go on to another place,
the brook goes ,forever after.
'til once again in this peaceful place
I'll hear its running laughter.