through carefree days we roamed its banks,
we swam, we fished,
and took it all for granted,
but it is just a shadow now
of what it used to be,
life-giving floods are all too rare,
yet still it flows.
now, when I cross the little bridge
that spans the sheltered reach
before it meets the river,
I gaze upstream through older eyes
made wiser by the years,
to see the dappled sunshine light
the beauty that I failed to heed
when I was just a boy.
Duncan Fraser, Australia
1 comment:
A beauty this, Duncan. The memory
flows much like a river. A reader
of poetry knows intuitively when a
poem is of fine quality because
when you read it you feels somewhere in the back of your mind
that you know the words before
come upon each one.
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