We crossed the dry bed where once a brook,
a leftover memory never to return,
chortled as if it was a laughing child
tickled by the guffaw of bubbles.
Although time had changed us and the wood,
our recollections painted in the details.
The birds made no song
but we brought the music of our childhood
and we were rich in the joy of it.
No longer were we three adults but
three kids climbing rocky walls and
shouting into hollow ravines for echoes.
Upon hearing our voices we galloped in wild abandon,
a seeming race with some phantom enemy,
and in our leaping frenzy we were made new.
Brenda Bishop Blakey
Thanks to the sunday whirl for the words: phantom, brook, rocky, hollow, leaping, dry, although, new, walls, never, birds, wood