The Brook

They cannot hear;
Who have not heard,
Though they come near
A trickling Word.

O little stream, come let me dabble
And dwell with my pen upon your mores.
You languish ‘neath the crass name babble
Bound by the words of disconsolate bores.

From ‘round the bend
Down rock and crease
You flow and wend
Without surcease.

They notice you to step aside—
To keep their feet mud-free and dry,
Or think of how your humble tide
Adds to the earth’s ecology.

Sings the heart!
Cry salvation!
Call you art;

So, muse of fluid, clear and cold
They lift you from this place and time.
They dwell on sun-reflected gold
And revel in their sight sublime.

From ‘round the bend
To lands unproved
You rush and wend,
Yet still unmoved.

You are a story filled with hope.
The joy of life you give and keep.
Your breadth and depth belie your scope.
With grace you fall, with joy you leap.

Who have not heard;
They cannot hear
A trickling Word,
Though they come near


About Brett Jenkins