Dreams have flown like startled doves
In the dusk of summer’s longing.
There is nothing left on the ground below
Except a silver feather and the echo of their cries.

When dreams were kites that sailed the skies
On winds of hope and effort
There were no tall trees to snap the line
And send them whirling through the branches.

When dreams were streams meandering
Through the meadows of our youth
The bubbling song they sang brought peace
And the icy water was refreshing.

But now a dam’s been thrown upstream
To fill a swimming hole for others
And only a little trickle makes it past
The banks that once were lush and green

But now are brown and sere.
The wind has died that lofted
Mythological creations up and
Dancing on the end of twine.

There are no birds in this parched meadow-
Not a dove or Mocking Bird.
There is no breeze or wading pool
But only tombstones carved for dreams
That lived in hope and died in cold reality.
                                                         ljm