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The Brook It's raining again outside as it has done many times before just an advancing front a wet tide sweeping across the night's sky It's drizzling now around here allowing me to walk around there is a brook babbling over there but it never will be found For it is well hidden in its course under its bed of weeds the brook supplies their needs while trickling down its course Where it goes I don't know for I don't want to follow its ever silent call its ever silent call in my soul But one day I just might for who knows what adventure might be found just over the hill the longing for travel grips me tight I turn my back again for it's begun to rain or is it the tears trickling down my eyes Paul Vernon Deffendall January 19, 1990 PREVIOUS POEM
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