My Grandparent’s Creek

I remember.
‘Twas the summer of the first year that
I really saw America.
And beyond my grandpa and grandma’s driveway,
A little path unfolds,
Winding around the steep hillside;
At the end
A shallow creek flows.
A plank swing and a rope for swinging on
Hang from the trees on the bank,
And a little brick oven
Beside a picnic table
Invites one to sojourn there
On a lazy afternoon.
And this we did:
My family
And grandparents
And uncle and aunt
Strolled down that path
Beneath the dappled shadows of the trees.
My sisters and I swung on the swing,
And my uncle swung on the rope;
We swam in the creek
And hiked along its banks.
Then we left.
Four years later
My family returned.
The path is lined with weeds;
Knee-high grass has overgrown the banks.
The picnic table has become rotted planks,
And the brick oven is hidden.
The ropes still hang.
I was very sad,
For we could no longer hike along the creek’s edges.
But I have assurance;
The place of my remembrance may change,
But God never changes.

By Luke Hanna

Copyright © 2006 by the author