There’s a well clothed in moss at the base of the hill
with a lid that is slid o’er the top,
and I thought of the time when we last shared a thrill
to hear stones make a plunk as they dropped.
It was pleasant to tarry and quaff a cold drink
of the water so fresh and so sweet,
and make sure we survived and came back from the brink,
the relentless noon sun shedding heat.
Then the freshets of Spring took us off to free range
in the quest of new worlds we would find,
and the eyes of the young are oft last to see change
as the stars in their brilliance may blind.
Now the well is a relic, with a bank on the lands
where a verdant and lush meadow swayed,
and the trill of the meadowlark’s lilting sweet strands
are an echo our minds still hear played.
© 2022 Nancy Sobanik
Can be sung to the tune of …