When I was young we lived near a stream called Fields Brook and the Ashtabula river it fed. Read the rest of this entry »
The river runs past the boy forever
each day the same and each moment different
brown and lazy on the surface
such hidden turbulence
cold cold cold if you dare the depths
A hidden place, old old train trestle bridge
long ago replaced wrought iron trusses
snapped and submitting to the weight
plunged so many to their deaths.
Leaving coins amidst the polished stones along the shore.
Do they dance here alone at night?
always the past, without hope or future
ghostly in pale moonlight
at this lonely lonely spot
where only carp recall their names
Barefoot in the shallows tin can ready
lifting rock and scuttling backwards captured
crayfish tin prison and joyous boy
swimming backwards never looking
he just had to find your rock
fossils in the shale from forever long ago
and small bare toes mark the clay along the shore
they meander like the river up and down
forever and a day from now will they find the traces
of solitary boy with tin can treasures
A young boy would walk the mile or two into the ravine and woods behind his house
and seem to be the only person in the world. The bridge that spanned the river marked the site of
the Ashtabula River Railroad Disaster.