A babbling brook flows through the mossy stones, Its gentle voice a melody unknown. Silver fish dart ‘neath the willow’s shade, Where dappled light and dancing shadows played. An old man sits upon a weathered log, His mind adrift within the morning fog. He recalls a promise made in youthful spring, A whispered word on which his heart would cling. The seasons turned, the years have flowed along, Yet in his heart, it still remains a song. The water murmurs secrets soft and deep, As weary eyes a...
