It is an old dream
I am passing slowly down a sidewalk looking across
A long green lawn.
There is a gathering crowd, some sounds of alarm.
An old man lies on the ground
His face in shadow from of those that stand around.
But he does not move.
He has come to this quiet place and decided to move no more.
But he is moved.
They come and not in any hurry. No urgency.
He is lifted to the gurney
As limp as a rag doll. They cover him and strap him secure
And walk back
Toward the house that stands dark and tall
At the end of this dream
At the end of that long green lawn.
Martin Hunter
5/14/2012
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
It is an old dream
I am passing slowly down a sidewalk looking across
A long green lawn.
There is a gathering crowd, some sounds of alarm.
An old man lies on the ground
His face in shadow from of those that stand around.
But he does not move.
He has come to this quiet place and decided to move no more.
But he is moved.
They come and not in any hurry. No urgency.
He is lifted to the gurney
As limp as a rag doll. They cover him and strap him secure
And walk back
Toward the house that stands dark and tall
At the end of this dream
At the end of that long green lawn.
Martin Hunter
5/14/2012
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