How many ages
has this little stream sought to carve its mark,
tirelessly trickling downhill,
working particle by particle
to outline its bed?
Giants grow beside it,
a hundred variations
of leaves, stems, flowers, dangling tendrils
catching every spare droplet –
yet they weren’t even saplings, or seeds, or spores
when the stream began its task.
Other flora grew in their place, and before that,
more still.
Generations have passed
watching the water lick on,
and the ground, impressed by its perseverance,
took shape from it,
drawing a steep, gaping mouth
with fall-filled yawns.
Now visitors congregate
to the fruit of the stream’s toil:
a quiet ravine splashed with every kind of green,
picturesque to them,
practical and well-stocked
to the fauna, great and small,
who keep it company.
This 52nd poem is the final part of a project I’ve been doing to raise money for the RSPB, a UK wildlife conservation and protection charity. If you’d like to help, please share this poem to encourage others to take joy in nature, and if you have the time and means to donate, you can do so here. The donation page will be left up until the end of November 2021 (if not longer). Thank you for your support!
Treeshallow Musings 