Brook Through Brattleboro
Proud is a town that has a brook
coursing through a many storied vein,
playfully among eternal monuments,
a constant ablution of caramelized pain,
always seen as a fluid chameleon
now peaceful in its stony moat,
now a millrace torrent,
now gleaming, spilling over the brim
of an algaed wall,
becoming a ragged windowpane waterfall,
to roll over the unmoved bald stones
through countless bedazzling days,
passing under the romantic bridge
holding discourse with vagrant shadows
capturing a wayward gaze,
to become a furious cataract rushing
through its tortured gorge into
a secluded reflecting pool,
lapping against brick work dark and cool
of venetianed apartments standing
implacably in serene water and lofting
a luxurious balcony with a view begging
the passing of a wayward gondola,
illuminated by a merciful sun
meant to warm and never parch
the environs cradling the blameless brook
ebbing away under a medieval arch.
Proud is a town that has a brook,
the tireless confessor to yearning hearts,
whispered secrets, the stuff of lore,
in times of peace,
and tedious times of war.
Proud is a town that has a brook,
proud are the shops, the steeples sheer,
proud is that maroon mansion on the hill,
proud is the Fourth of July parade,
marching over the romantic bridge
and up there through the main arcade.
Proud is a town that has a living brook,
a town that knows not angst nor want,
a town such as Brattleboro, Vermont.
Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 740 times
Written on 2006-11-18 at 06:32
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