She told me of a little ridge
That passed beneath a street.
She met with friends beneath the bridge,
A sheltered place to meet.
A stream of water flowed between
Two shady hills of earth,
And when it rained, it couldn't wean
Them from their youthful mirth.
The sweet, dear innocence of youth
Finds solace anywhere.
I pray that grace in her bear fruit.
I often visit there.
Maurice A. Williams
Copyright 2003