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May 17
The Bells In The Meadow -

In the wildness of my western meadow drenched in green
Where as a boy and a boy weary in dreams
Toads wore thorns of Kings roamed beneath black cloaked stars
And stars that then danced in bright milky white rapport
Sun in summer's time soon scorched small minds at play
Laying in wait in the tall old Oaks curled in her crusted arms
Ambushing boys armed with carved wood rifles blood red dried scars
In the wildness of my meadow lay unborn futures unseen

Meadow's wilderness wild washed in false sweet delights
Stalking feeding pheasants 'til fleeing in frantic flight
Fantasies soared 'neath the sun soaking closed narrow rows
Of fattened trees dangling figs for me and the shy sparrow
Wind in winter's time blew until moist warm mornings in May
While the dogs and the dogs of the children still ran
Free to root out red furred squirrels so frightened and
Flee over the meadow's grass green while futures burned bright

Memories quieted on the western meadow
Where as a man and a man of years unknown
Grown the tarnished thistle thick the stained sweetbrier
Cowering in the bright milky waywardly stars
Horned toads gone their tired desperate ways
Carved rusted wood rifles line dried Christmas Tree forts
Hounds their great grandpups groomed in gallant rapport
Memories of my western meadow green where broken bells toll
Written by
Martin Heath
320
 
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