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Published on: 4/2/2009
Staffordshire Farm, Abandoned
Straw coloured grass, breeze lifted, rain bedewed,
grows wild and overlong before the low
mossy stones of the garden wall; half blown
by winds and threaded through the hedge and row,
stopping at the banks where a stream intrudes.
glimmers of cowslip and columbine show
in bright randomness within the tall grass
as it grows on the old furrows. Winds pass
to show, weed hidden by a path, a mass
of forget me nots, left behind to grow.
Circled all around: meadows yet to bear
the next harvest. Plowed. Planted. Everywhere
grows forth green goodness from the land, but here:
nothing: too long abandoned, too hard to clear.
Published on: 4/8/2008
Coming Upon A Stone Circle at Sunset
Old Birch trees, whose white branches weave and sift
The brilliant evening twilight, huddle deep
Around these circled stones. The old grove shifts
As leaves and chilly breezes slightly lift
And rustle. But these silent grey stones keep
Their secrets: no wind reveals, no evening shade distills
Why they stand, encircling each other, in these hills.
With ancient reasons more astute than ours
These stones were brought here, then precisely set.
Each in its place. Time moves, things change, rains pour
Suns rise and set, winter storms blow and roar,
These, encircled, change not. Only men forget.
And now we watch as deepened shadows show
How much we've lost of what our fathers' fathers know.
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