Morning, noon and dusk
waters rush in Cooleemee Creek.
Slippery rocks and noisy bugs
will lick your feet and bite your toes.
Muddy banks go on for miles.
Rhythmically the water flows.
A love-struck girl crossed Cooleemee Creek
at half-past ten one blustery night.
Summer rain slid down her cheeks.
Wind bounced branches everywhere.
She thought she heard her sweetheart speak
and turned to learn he wasn’t there.
She breathed, relieved, just nature’s joke,
moved onward, up the slippery bank.
Her shoes sank deeper in the mud.
Her ankle twisted with a crack.
Wincing once, she moved ahead
determined. No looking back.
Will he be there at the old bridge
waving from beneath the arch
with a blanket to surround
her shivering shoulders as they kissed,
hands locked for their pilgrimage?
“Are you there?” she asked the mist.
Her head was struck, she fell back.
Cooleemee Creek stole her shoes.
They floated fast in bloodied waves
moving passed her sinking face.
Romantic masks of love lure
many to this mournful place.
