A Brook In The City

in my heart a river runs alluvial, fishes, leaves, flowers and all a catfish winds its way up to the surface shows its pinkish whiskers and round mouth and down in a fleet second puyu splash their way down after a fall bubble, splash, bubble, splash, big fish, small fish, breakdance down the river their only way to show joy and gratitude for nature's care like a gymnast they turn their tails up bend and sweep the water swivels and down they go head plunging the river a stage of tail splashing game how the world has changed since thirty years the sweep of a puyu's tail i could still collect that childhood heart that had gone afflutter the river that has changed course to run through my heart calming nerves and evoking childhood joy the river now buried deep in the town's memory the river now imprisoned caged between cement walls no more fishes, no more splashdance, breakdance red water, blooms and leaves! the river that now only has me as its fish splashing every now and then to let its sweetness flow forth the river now buried deep in the earth in the city's mind inspired by A Brook In The City The farmhouse lingers, though averse to square With the new city street it has to wear A number in. But what about the brook That held the house as in an elbow-crook? I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength And impulse, having dipped a finger length And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed A flower to try its currents where they crossed. The meadow grass could be cemented down From growing under pavements of a town; The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame. Is water wood to serve a brook the same? How else dispose of an immortal force No longer needed? Staunch it at its source With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone In fetid darkness still to live and run - And all for nothing it had ever done Except forget to go in fear perhaps. No one would know except for ancient maps That such a brook ran water. But I wonder If from its being kept forever under, The thoughts may not have risen that so keep This new-built city from both work and sleep. Robert Frost