Sonnet XXXI: The Brook

I know that churlish brook that by the day
Tiptoes behind the woods unto the sea
Of endless questions. By the night to play
A spade and quarry all and more it'd be

Some gravel, mostly shiny, and some clay,
A handful broken twigs from underneath
A stoic vignette fighting to convey
The blooming buds atop a sombre wreath

It takes them all to sea through trough and crest
I wonder if it tired of the weight
Or if indeed it's this it was to be

And set afloat a boat atop its breast
Which sails on with the sun, I watch and wait.
They say this brook / boat will go on endlessly