The Creek

By Nan Doyle

This poem — about an Australian childhood that some of us are lucky enough to remember, and which probably still exists in some places— has recently been aired a number of times on the radio program Australia All Over, giving it one of the widest audiences any writer could hope for. It has touched a chord with listeners, many of whom have contacted Nan asking for copies. We're proud to share it here.

Do you remember when we were young, Tom?
We’d scarper away to the creek,

On Sundays at one, before Church had begun

And the treasures of nature we’d seek.

We knew where the birds had their nests, Tom

We knew where the fish liked to hide

We knew where the maidenhair grew, Tom

And we knew where the bees had a hive.

We used to laugh at the world, Tom

As we merrily hunted for frogs.

We ate lilly pillies and called them wild cherries

And crossed over the creek on a log.

Then we’d go back to the house, Tom
As the clock was striking three.

We had the primeval instinct of kids, Tom

To be home for afternoon tea.

Then the lectures would start, Tom

After the parson had gone,

Our souls must be headed for Hell, Tom,

if wagging church was so wrong.

I remember the day you protested,

In tones begrudgingly meek,

‘If God wants to talk to a bloke, Dad,

Why don’t he come down to the creek?

‘It’s hard to sit still in church, Dad,

When you’re only a boy like me.

We don’t make much noise at the creek, Dad,

And there’s interesting things to see.

‘Why does God live in a church, Dad?

Where an hour seems more like a week?

If God wants to talk yo a bloke, Dad,

He oughta live down at the creek.’

I went there today for a walk, Tom,

And nothing has changed very much.

I sat there and breathed in the peace, Tom,

And memories came back with a rush.

I found something good there today, Tom,

And I’ll give you this secret to keep.

He was there with us all of the time, Tom.

He’s always lived down at the creek.