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Coady Creek

Reflections from the Swamp
Richard van Duyvendyk

Dear Reader

My bride and I spent time with a grandchild making Christmas cards, listening to Bing Crosby sing Christmas carols, and writing poetry. The poetry was rhyming poetry, which is restrictive. This poem about Coady Creek, which flows under our driveway(and over it in the spring), is one I wrote about one of my favourite places.

Best wishes.

 

Coady Creek

From far, far, away are my waters drawn;
from Corkery hills to low wetland flows.
The wise geese think me safe to land upon,
and alder tree shadows are where starlings go.
Blue Herons can fish here because of me
as I move slowly to the distant sea.

When cattails turn to gold and the leaves fall,
and ice forms in mornings and slows the flow,
the birds listen to inner voices call.
They spread their wings, wave out farewell and go.
Birds become the movement as ice stills me;
snow and ice blind my waters, I can’t see.

Beneath the ice, weeds dance in slow motion;
beavers swim, blowing fine silver bubbles;
cold pond waters move, drawn by the ocean.
Frogs sleep in muck, forgetting their troubles.
My frozen-covered surface hides the light;
my green waters hidden from starry night.

Slowly, I feel the snow melting away,
And the Sun warms, revealing the sky- birds.
Life flows in the trees; dawn brings a new day.
In the spring, the beginning is the Word.
The Sun shines long, the land and waters warm;
the sky’s dark clouds pour out a thunderstorm.

The Word speaks, and all of life begins anew.
My waters swell, flowing over the beaver dam.
The sky welcomes new birds where few birds flew.
The pond fills with geese, all spaces they cram.
Through all these seasons, I lived the changes;
life goes on in forms that it rearranges.

Though I tumble and crash my way to the river
bringing life-giving waters to my banks.
I share my waters with the Life Giver,
all of Creation’s new life gives their thanks.
This cycle of water brings life to the land;
here I’ve always dwelt, home in the wetlands.

My tumbling waves sing out as they pass by
the five-arched bridge on the Mississippi.
The infant cornfields, the pink and orange sky,
the river rocks that are so slippery.
Towns appear along my meandering path.
The journey and tumbling waves make me laugh
I’m Coady Creek, just one of the many,
what this life gives me is more than plenty.

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