Rivers and Books

Within a park not far away there lives a magic tree;
a sycamore is what it’s called and it stands mightily.
So big and tall with limbs that reach into the sky with pride,
and best of all there is a door carved right within its side.

I saw a sign above the door--nobody else did, though;
and so I just went through the door--I thought it apropos.
The setting sun was almost gone--it was far from the dawn;
yet I came to a brighter land, a land that's called Rowlawn.

I liked the land in which I walked upon a midday clear;
and every accent that I heard was music to my ear.
A blink of eye beheld a beach with hot sand to the cheek,
and then another blink displayed bluebells beside a creek.

I walked the land of peaceful paths and quiet country lanes,
and breathed the fragrance of the rose in gentle, summer rains.
It was elation for each sense, demanding many looks;
as forest trees played violins, and rivers flowed with books.

And hotel lobbies with red rugs, each park along the way;
the fine surround like honeycomb, the taste of crème brûlée*.
The simple gaze at Milky Way in fields removed from light,
a world so fresh, so clean, so clear, like splash of water sprite.

(How far now, mighty sycamore, how distant is the door?
  I love the accent of this land, by now I hear a roar.
  Far in the distance comes a wail, a plea within the air,
  as rivers still flow by with books, but pages start to tear.)

The lucid dawn of world Rowlawn afforded me real joy;
the day began with warmth and light for my heart to employ.
But as the day began to ebb and dusk began to fade,
I saw how dark this world could be when give receives no trade.

It was a world bereft of clocks, for time was but a lark;
and hope was hung on many stars, yet still the sky stayed dark.
And I would stand to read a book along the riverside,
but when the current tore the page, the joy inside me died.

And for awhile I would start to go back to that door,
because I simply could not take this Rowlawn world no more.
But then I would reverse myself, and give it one more try,
but finally I had to say, “Rowlawn, farewell, goodbye.”

Within the woods I often see the sycamore stand tall,
and I still like to hike the trails in summer, spring and fall.
Yet even in the wintertime, if I am bold--who knows?
I’ll pass that tree and see that door, but now that door stays closed.


{Rhythm: 14]  (Lines: 40)
Writer’s Cramp; December 28, 2011

*crème brûlée
(krĕm' brū-lā')
n.
A custard with a crust of caramelized sugar.