Walking where water runs is the saddest thing,
when sorrow seeps from cold burrows
and the mud where no prints betray
the patter and scatter of scurrying life.
No foot has trod where so many have passed
on quiet business, trailing young intent on play,
no fallen feather marks the place
where death was dealt and bellies filled.
They never notice, those who drive and curse
when something moves beneath a wheel,
they never walk where water runs,
nor hear its voice lamenting something lost.