As I walk along a wooded lane
worn down by time
I wonder:
Could it have been my father’s day
when wheels ceased to use this way?
Could it have been his father’s day
when first the field began to stray?
A crooked pass —
through meadow —
from woods
to barnyard stack it goes.
As time engulfed so did growth
as meadows ceased to be.
A small growth here —
a sapling there —
first one, then two . . . and three.
Soon a wooded road it came
this meandering trail I walk.
Through time
and life,
through field to wood
now I
where once he stood.
— John Athearn, March 1979
Comments (3)
Comments
Comment policy »