Corral Creek Road

You'll never find Corral Creek Road.
They've given it another name,
A number, really; bureaucrats, and you
Won't understand how I was molded
By our trips each weekend up that
Road, through regrown forest, fording
The Teanaway, its bottom butter-
Colored rocks. Away: no phones
Or television, no cars, hours spent
In silence laying on those yellow rocks,
A mind allowed to wander freely,
Serenaded by the sound of frigid
Water rushing by. I've largely stayed
Alone since then, someone who stood
Somewhat apart, unfit for blind devotion
To the charlatans who lead the herd.
You may have grown up differently,
And been incorporated into our time's
Overwhelming, mind-erasing
Connectivity. You may have largely
Ceased to think. I haven't. Though I'm
Here with you, my mind still drifts,
Preserves itself, up by Corral Creek Road.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2021-06-07 at 14:05

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An interesting take on how the memory of a place is preserved in our minds, no matter how many changes those nasty bureaucrats bring to that place. Nicely captured the sentiment, Larry. :)