Looking back-The streams of old.

I remember one day i was moving downstream,
It was a habit born of curiosity,
fed with delight and maintained by youth.
It was what every lad did back then.
We cut pores of flowers and tossed them in the running stream.
Different colours they were,
each representing the cars we dreamt of.
Still,they were canoes going down the river.
And the waters were crystal clear,
sieved and purified by the grains of rock they passed through.
That was simply heaven to our eyes.
Time always stopped and a quiet serenity overcame,
the only sound being the rush and hurry of the water,
as it raced downstream,
the only focus being our boats-
being tossed downstream as we followed by the sides.
An occasional shriek of the wild birds ,
and the ducks that flew away interrupted our game.
And so when evening came,we knew not the time nor the hour.
so when mama called from uphill,
we knew her patience was stretched,
and we ran uphill through paths not travelled .
so we could avoid the scold but not the cold.
And that always marked the end of a day out,
In those days and times.
Its different now as the streams are dry,
and the catchments have made way for habitation.
The wetlands have been grabbed,
and the clear waters that quenched our thirst,
is but a running sewer.