William H.A. Willbond MSM, CD

THE CREEK

We got water from the creek behind our clapboard cabin.
I chopping winter holes in the ice and one spring I fell in.
The ice broke and I went under until a thin spot I found.
Breaking through, grabbing a willow, I almost drowned.

I led our horses to the hole, to let each one slake thirst.
Gum boots and breeks were frozen, my fingers felt worse.
I entered the kitchen and I stood by the big beach stove.
The hot needles of thaw pain filled my fingers and toes.

Mom’s tub of snow was used to rub my hands and feet.
The tips of my black toes were wrapped in a sheet.
My stove pipe wire rabbit snares were set each day.
Stew meat, the fur buyer for lucky rabbits feet would pay.

Dad and Grandpa dynamited above at the beaver dam lake.
The logs floating the creek and to the river they’d take.
The creek held our water for horses, cattle and hens.
It was clean mountain water and upon it we’d depend.

We moved to the city it was a whole new scene.
The city water in the tap was filled with chlorine.
We ate my pet pig porky before we moved away.
I carried pails of creek water to his trough every day.

I missed my friend Porky and the gurgle of the creek.
It was off to the city for new adventures to seek.
I still hear the creek roaring as I dream in bed.
In the spring it was high as along it logs sped.