Hay Meadow Creek Poem by Christine A Kysely

The Hay Meadow Creek divides my Parent's land
Its waters run clear and true
It then flows into the Prairie
Along untended Lincoln County lands.

The Prairie is a little wider
A little deeper too
Its banks are a little more traveled
By seasoned anglers through and through.

I like to hang my head
over the Hay Meadow Bridge
I like to watch the clouds sail overhead
Reflected in the creek's moving pools, over branches left long dead.

The bridge has been there my entire life
Just down the hill and around the corner
A place for quiet solitude
A place to reflect on my sheltered life's wonder.

I like to watch the dragonflies
Dance along its tangled banks
On magical summer fairy wings
while June Bugs and Bullfrogs like to sing.

They dance and hover along the banks
The banks that are their borders
The shores of their horizons
Now that I am in my later years
I miss these absent minded visions.

I can see the brown trout swimming
from my elevated place in Heaven
I can see some rainbows also
From my seated place of speculation.

I can see their shaded outlines in the deeper pools
Colored copper by the iron in the creek bottom's residues
Along with all of the granite here
Its a gold mine of rocks and pebbles.

I can see their shadowy figures dance and sway
There are no anglers casting today
And so their lives will be spared until another day
When hooked and caught, they will be carried away.

To where they will be someone's breakfast or lunch or dinner
But not today, they are safe as I gaze upon them today
There are no anglers in sight
The Farmers Almanac predicted not
Not until the Month's next Fortnight.

The Creek bends slightly before it arrives here at the Bridge
There is a rapids flowing, a rapids of water meeting rocky ridge
I can hear its music played aloud
Between the rocks and boulders a tune.

A song whose voice changes very little during the day
Only when the Spring and Summer rains come along
Or when the Winter's temperature turns all movement into solid ice
Ans then silence becomes the norm.

But for the today
I can watch the Browns and Rainbows dance and sway
There are no anglers wading about
To cast their lines across the shadows here.

Their lives are safe, My memories are dear
I will hold them close in my older years
Of the days of watching the Haymeadow Creek
Lying on the Bridge that I held so dear.


(January 5,2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)

(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved,