A country landscape lost
Slightly burnt, the grass so green,
dewey with sunshine, subtle with rain,
shimmers in the pasture with a faraway gold.
So little to lose they say but so much to gain
from the miniature forest awake in the rein
of twenty old horses roaming the land.
A brittle old farmhouse stands its ground;
paint chipped, its life ceasing to exist,
but the rust colored bird sits on the roof
singing a song so sweet, so uncouth;
a lullaby for the ancient wood creaking floors
sing the land to sleep, sweet bird.
The farmers are losing their will to survive;
hold on, hold on, to the riveting rhymes
of the solemn river holding your hand
across the acrobatic bridge and into Fall.
We’ll dance as the summer evenings slide
beyond our imperfect little countryside.
So dance, dance until the morning;
we will do away with all this sorrow.
Holding hands - tight - until tomorrow
when the leaves will fall and we will crawl
into the sparkling city standing tall.
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