We walked, many years and long ago,
Down an icy stream on naked feet.
The trees were stout with age, and so
Young were we, and so incomplete,
No inkling came to us of the coming death
Of wildness. Clear water, shadowed forest,
Was a given that we drew upon with each breath.
Fierce blue skies glimmered through the leaves. Birds chorused
Raining chirps and whistles. Hawks faintly shrieked.
Warm winds hissed and spider strands
Wrapped across our faces. Sharp beaked
Woodpeckers hammered high above. Our hands
Sprung branches that we met
That struck us back in whooshing slaps.
Round stones beneath our feet, white, wet,
Seemed oval eggs, and in the gaps
The brown clay mud sucked our toes.
How strong still is that memory. It taps
The liquid grace of time and place that knows
How wonderful that world had been. That stream
From strong and far off memory still flows
And sounds its lively melody when I dream.