Saturday, November 08, 2014

Hill-Farm Sketches, a poem

Hill-Farm Sketches

July was heat and thunder
with an ice-cold creek
flowing through the middle.

Each pine on sandstone hills
knew the soft caress
of a summer moon.

The oft repeated name
of the whip-poor-will
filled the shadowed hollows.

The dogs ate boiled potatoes
when our pockets were empty
but the garden was full.

I could never climb
high enough in the maple
to see all I desired.

The voice of the night
still whispers among the hills
but I can not hear the words.

Stephen Brooke ©2014

Memories  of a place I lived as a  kid. I could see adding more were I to get ambitious someday.

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