mountain brook

O brook, older than
any generation can recall,
drafting ferric-red
through mountain gullies,
eons of erosion
scraping sandstone
to the sea;
superannuated,
yet running faster than
all the memories
that teem and tumble
from my brain,
sweet reminiscences
as well as pain, all
churned and pushed
farther and further
from the present.
No dam can hold you;
no dynamo can
dredge you dry;
I am simply along
for the ride,
content to watch
it all slip downstream
knowing that springs
will feed the brook
eternally. 

Liz McFadzean