Musings Upon a Woodland Stream in Late Afternoon

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Musings Upon a Woodland Stream in Late Afternoon

Postby jackdevon8 » Mon May 25, 2020 7:40 pm

Musings Upon a Woodland Stream in Late Afternoon

What heart but naught with dazed desire
when met by a field ablaze and afire
sees cascades of spindly scions--
a boundless parade of dandelions--and sigh!
Their nodding heads of yellow-pride
beckoned me forth in mellow-stride
into the soaring, sun-blocking trees,
abhorring earth-locked humanity
under mountainous, gloating canopies.
'Twas not much time before I found
a racing stream sliced through the ground--
a narrow trough of splashing mirth
gracing my path with tranquil worth.
At length I came abreast a bridge of logs,
won'dring who had built it thus,
whether wan'dring woodland nymphs and such--
an ancient Celt, or knight, or thief,
thundering across among the leaves.
The nameless stream proceeded on
through gameless tracts unheeding
of my delight and shameless feeling
that the joy of life the stream conveyed
should forever be unyielding.
We passed a stately oak just then
upon which a branch was propped--
long and straight and full of holes,
a flute fit for a wren.
Who could have carved, or fashioned, or dropped
the intriguing instrument--
an elf, or fairy, or impassioned prince,
blown from a moonlit battlement?
Daylight now was fading fast,
though the stream maintained its glossy course,
the woods retaining shady shafts
on sun-spun mossy gorse.
I was far beyond the dandelions,
lost in reverie,
stream trickling hap'ly ever-on
in dappled destiny.
Yearning for its terminous
I pondered what I'd find--
a depthless cavern, luminous lake,
or a diamond mine.
In truth, I preferred some tumbling ruins,
an abbey, say, or church;
some long-forgotten place to pray,
as crumbling as its faith.
Or perhaps a creaking mill,
decrepit and abandoned,
with leaking waterwheel.
A glade of blinding sunlight,
dazzling to behold,
opened up before me,
green and brassy-gold.
The stream I learned was Thrifton,
invisible on maps--
it gleamed and raged and drifted,
past a friar staging mass.
It seemed only a single deer,
plus a bird or two,
were in the brown-robed mendicant's purview,
but they would have to do.
Salvation, I've heard, should not be feared--
it's for the many and the few.
I stood behind a twig-built hut,
the bridge and flute were his;
while one's spirit can wilt and sag,
I came away with this:
a stream, you see, may aimless be
but not on this occasion.
Thrifton's route was clear and true
for Heaven was its destination.
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