I visited the place that hatched my dreams.
Although the oaks are older, there’s more sky
than when we leaned against them watching teams
of ants cart insects down the rigid bark
to serve as dinner platters in their nests
down under cedar needles on the lawn.
It’s not my home now; even time has moved.
I say good-bye to silence and retreat
back to my present home where rivers grooved
first settlers’ maps then shrivelled into creeks.
Time’s lines extend the song that’s dreaming me
while the wind skins gravel from untended graves.
Love the poem Alan. Is there a typo though in the last line? “wind skims gravel” vice “wind skins gravel”
Thanks, David. Not a typo, I saw the wind skinning the gravel, like a hunting knife through a rabbit’s fur. Having said that, I think I like your ‘skims’ better. :-)
Great poem, Alan. Thanks!