OLD OAKS, STONE WALLS & BUCK TRACKS

When the urban confusion settles on me,

Like a dark, dank cloud of foggy dew,

Escape to the serenity of a farm of happy,

Unrehearsed encounters with rural friends,

Staring at the aftermath of raccoon and bucks,

Doe always there, and the royal rack hidden,

And a pesky skunk annoyed perfumes the air.

When forebears plowed the dark river mud soil,

They piled short castles and walls, marking metes,

Denoting bounds and spatial alignments in perpetuity,

That if I should ever depart my birthplace in years,

Still constant remained place, decrying rude development,

Old signposts unchanged like eternal oaks, and buck tracks.


Copyright©  by Robert Wetmore
All Rights Reserved