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Oh, so many memories
down by our old crick—
water for the cattle,
the old salt lick,
Catchin’ pollywogs in spring,
runnin’ thru’ the grass,
settlin’ under shady trees,
secrets shared at last,
Wadin’ in the water,
restin’ on the shore,
fishin’ in the summer—
who could ever want for more,
Daddy on an inner tube
splashin’ every kid—
after workin’ in the fields
that’s what he sometimes did.
Boys to meet there on the sly
when courtin’ time arrived,
younger siblings spyin’—
on this they simply thrived,
Mama walkin’ evenin’s
with baby in her arms,
while babbling brook of water
reassured her of no harm…
Memories I recollect
like learning nursery rhymes—
I’ll tell my children of the crick
where I spent youthful times.
Tamara Hillman
©2011
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