The Old Stream That Rises In The Foothills

The old stream that rises in the foothills and into a river does grow
Through fields and by groves and by hedgerows on to the great ocean does flow
The artists have sketched it's liquid beauty the poets about it have sung
And none can mistake it for it's babble the one who has the silver tongue
Millions of year before the birth of the first human it's liquid voice has never been still
It has journeyed down from the high ground from it's source at the foot of the hill
As old as the hill that it flows from it's birthdate none does know of to write
Though stories of it have been published and poets their poems of it recite
It has outlived millions of Seasons and is destined to live forever more
Joined by drains, rills and smaller rivers on it's journey to the ocean shore
It babbles on through town and village on down to the flat countryside
And slows and grows on it's approach to the ocean to a mass of water deep and wide
The stream that grows to a huge river it babbles on by night and day
From it's birthplace at the foot of the mountain the mountain from here far away.