The Stream – a poem

The Stream, it seems
Has quite a cast of characters,
As it gleams, in the early morning sun

As the dew drips down,
Down to the ground
And onto an ant, on a mound,
As he carries a leaf further down, along the path,
Where his Queen, is eternally bound
To her destined Ova–lasted mourning

The slug crawls ever closer, to his home
Under a large, smooth rock, round,
Half embedded in the ground,
Amongst the mud, rising, near the mound
A place of shade, in a glade,
Somewhere common, all around

Below the surface, of the stream,
As it glitters so clear so clean
Little bubbles to the surface, rise,
From the mouths of fish, glaring by
Eyeing insects as they glide,
Close to the surface from the sky
To be eaten swiftly,
Before they fly

A hatched larvae, falls to the ground,
As the butterfly’s wings begin to pound
Moving up and up with the breeze,
Without a care, with increasing ease
A short lived life it was destined to be,
As nature meant, for us to see

The willow’s branch bends low and heavy,
Bark and leaf drip dew more heavily
As he sees in the distance, ever so clearly,
What makes him weep and fear so dearly

From a new built factory, ever so near,
Dark clouds of smoke, that everyone fears
A stench, a smell, fills water and air
Moving down the stream, closer,
Closer to everything near
Bearing its contempt, its malice,
For what is now here