What the creek said

The creek chuckled

        recalling me falling into it

             aged four

               throwing a stick

                 and forgetting to let go.

                   The creek sighed, reminding me:

                          I didn’t kiss Lizzy Harris

                               when I had the chance

                     I wasn’t there

                   for my father’s last days

      and tyrants still rule the world.

   The creek murmured that I’ve lost:

         a cane-handled umbrella

                 a black bicycle

                       a best friend.

                           The creek whispered

                             wanting me to get back:

                             the ability to take a high mark

                           in a game of football

                     faith that the world can be made fairer.

         The creek burbled that

         for itself it would like restored:

          the little swamp where it rested

             the banjo frogs

                  the natural balance as it was

                     before the Industrial Revolution.

                          The creek would like that

                                       very much.