There is a field with tones of brown and gold,
with islands of bark, intermingled with their
stories of old.
As I hike through its grasses, I see signs of the past,
when men and their families walked in tall grass.
They hunted and killed, they built houses with trees.
I could see all of this through the slow falling leaves.
It is time for solace, time to relax, as
I walk through this field and its history filled grass.
They had come by the many to create a new life by this
amazing field that I now hike. Each with a struggle,
each with a path, I can still see them as I
stand in this field of gold grass.
The seasons are changing, the colors now white as I
think of those people, their struggles and plight.
The field now empty and the lakes are like glass
as I stand alone in this field of tall grass.
http://www.charlesdennispoetry.netne.net
© 2009 Charles Dennis
Nov 24, 2009
Nov 24, 2009 at 10:19 AM UTC
There is a field with tones of brown and gold,
with islands of bark, intermingled with their
stories of old.
As I hike through its grasses, I see signs of the past,
when men and their families walked in tall grass.
They hunted and killed, they built houses with trees.
I could see all of this through the slow falling leaves.
It is time for solace, time to relax, as
I walk through this field and its history filled grass.
They had come by the many to create a new life by this
amazing field that I now hike. Each with a struggle,
each with a path, I can still see them as I
stand in this field of gold grass.
The seasons are changing, the colors now white as I
think of those people, their struggles and plight.
The field now empty and the lakes are like glass
as I stand alone in this field of tall grass.
http://www.charlesdennispoetry.netne.net
© 2009 Charles Dennis
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