The Tale Of A Stream Poem by Oisin Silverhare

There is a place not far from here,
Where the skylark sings its song,
And a stream flows down from a nearby spring,
And murmurs as it wanders along.

For hundreds of years its story it's told,
But no one ever listens,
Only the trees that line its bank,
And the sunlight on the water that glistens.

A beautiful spot where a bridge spans the stream,
And the waters whisper below,
And dappled shade illumines the bridge,
A spiritual spot I know.

I stood on the bridge in the shade of the trees,
And listened to the tale it did tell,
Of the life of the fields and the life in its banks,
A story it knows so well.

The stream sings the song of Water and Earth
Of Air and the Fire of the Sun,
Of life and love and death and decay,
And the Spirit of every one.

The song of the heart that beats in the land,
A song that we have forgot,
The song of power, the music of life,
I promised "Forget? I would not! "

'Over there a tree once stood,
But little now can be seen
For countless years it was my friend,
We shared tales of things that have been.'

'People would come and pause on the bridge,
As I flowed slowly by,
I'd tell them my tale but none could hear,
And I never found out why.'

'The things I've seen, the things I've heard,
Great stories so sublime,
The tales I told that no one heard,
Will now be lost to time.'

I stand on the bridge and hear its tales,
My heart feels great dismay,
A lifetime is simply not time enough
To hear all that it can say.

The day grows late and I must leave,
As I bid the stream farewell,
But I tell it I will return one day,
To listen to all it can tell.

I know I will return one day,
To listen to its song,
A tale of life and beauty and hope,
The tale of a life that's long.