A Poisoned River
Remember, a sight I once did gaze in early dew and hum,
Bathed in beams and reamed in rays of early summer’s sun.
In that fresh cold glow I took a stroll in solace, and silence, and contemplated thought.
A walk along a beaten path; my feet trod on grinding earth and stone,
But no sound bore up from the crunching pound,
As nearby my destination, I focused upon a sweetly whispered sound.
A river. A ravine. A stream.
A flow of water as shaped as none that had a name.
Its rush and gubble, of gobbing water boggled over sand and stone in downward tide,
But on approach the wind stilled and grew thick with stench and idle sloth,
I watched in horror, I watched in gross contempt, this nameless flowing spring.
As I spied, my water, my well, poured along poisoned rotted fish.
Dead. Bloated. Still.