The speaker imagines a small, simple reunion: people standing close by a creek, elbows touching, fingers knotted together the way children tie knots, clumsy but tight. The creek is called a "brook" to make it feel magical, a playful bit of naming that the speaker clearly loves, right down to the frogs muttering curses before they splash away.
But the poem keeps circling a "rather." The speaker admits that "we" have often preferred not to gather, and not to notice how well they fit together. The invented verb "rathering" makes that avoidance sound almost like a habit or a game, though it hints at something sadder underneath. The word "could" repeats like a quiet invitation.
The mood is tender, wistful and gently humorous. By the end, the speaker suggests that a creek is just as magical as a brook, which feels like a hope that ordinary closeness is already enough, if people would only let themselves gather.