The Glen (day 1095)

In the glen; wild roving stallion,
I paused to stretch my limbs.
And when dismounting my hairy beast
A chorus of chick-a-dees sang to me.
To listen intently I spread my wings,
Laid myself low, enjoyed with the breeze
And over my head did fly all at once
One hundred black sparrows gathering their young.
Where butterflies fell over lazily my outstretched wings
And careless little flies found my warm skin.
And I on my back with my eyes to the sky
Watched clouds float on by; lazy summer breeze.
Long grass swayed as the warm sun spied between
Kentucky Blue, Fennel, and Orchard
Which my stallion munch on unceasingly,
“Chompity chompity chompity chomp.”
A soothing repetition with each grass pull; roots.
Up again, off again. Forward on was I!
A creek to be over! A fence to be had!
This glen of that glen, and fields in between
A small pond, a homestead, a row of red oaks.
Then after the huckelberries there’s a lane off ahead,
Then I’ll be home, my family’s ol’ stead.

No Ladder (day 837)

I stopped at my cliff to eye the fields
A walkers breath was all I could feel
Sent out along with my great view
Sitting alone in torment upon this hill

Not ready to head down to say I’m sorry
Misunderstanding every call shouted aloud
Reaching out hands to soften my fall
And for this I’m sorry, my stars of night’s sky

I miss you more stepping further, higher
A steady breath to hold your thought
Where I cover you from all this hurt
Oh gentle woman, oh lily of my ruin

Not ready to head down to say I’m sorry
Presence needs no ladder to follow me here
Your heart is in me, in every way near
And for this I’m sorry, my stars of night’s sky

I am here now in the height of love
I’m begging my dear for long nights near
Lit up clear with your bright eyes
Your thoughts so soft to my poor heart

I’m on my way to say I’m sorry
It wasn’t long amongst quiet things
To show me how I’ve done you wrong
And for this I’m sorry, my stars of night’s sky

Old English Accent (day 782)

It wasn’t too long ago that I
Wandering through fields waist high
Came upon one friendly blade of grass
That spoke to me in old English decree
Thus like:

Forsooth it is thy jolly Lombard
Erect in flight of recent folly
That doth not retire grand ambition
That doth not spare no damsel plight
Amongst thy gallows of conquered fate
Whence settling down amongst thou bromus
He contemplates his recent fight
And not one hour should pass thy penance
When thou stumblt upon a gift that gave
So lovely displayed be suit noble court
Of kindly and jolly King Edward the IV.
And in this gift so deep a sentiment
Earl Warwick, himself! ere be knelt
The gift to seekers shall be found
Not in man’s work but in mankind
Thou gift is also found upon
Thy brow of revelations crown

And to this joy that I’d now found
While wandering to and then to fro
Reciting, by name, the grass that grew
Here I would learn to love anew

North Thompson Field of Hay

A Free Soldier (day 654)

A lost soldier makes his way home
Elsewhere, grenades go off in combat
Where trenches are dug deep into earth
Casually the soldier wanders home
Through orchards full of fresh fruit
Through rolling country hills
And friendly strangers minding
Their own important business
Along double track dirt roads
Fields of flowers for napping carelessly
And picking, one hangs loose about his shirt pocket
Heavy combat coat flung freely about his shoulder
Fresh cut grass sends over the valley
A smell so potent and refreshing
Even the young birds come stay for a visit
Enjoying the new horizons created
By the arching suns daily pattern
Carrying it’s essence onward
Into the mind of the young soldier
Making his way home away from battle
In peace so strong a hand from nowhere reaches out
And assures him that all will be right
And walks him onward, into the light

Farmer’s Fields (day 369)

At first their is a little track
At which I rush along
Then comes some wild, untamed grass
To far from the farmers arm
Then comes a fence
Barbed with a deadly glare
The field, freshly plowed
Does sit upon the fences other wing
It’s here we find
The rows of dirt
Nearly as straight as I can draw
With seeds, no doubt
For the season of growth
For the farmer to reap and sow
It’s square to him
But diagonal to me
I see it at these speeds
And after that
What ends the flat
A sprout of lovely hedges
From here we see
The story continues
In likewise fashion and theme
Into the distance
Where the eye can see
To the end and then beyond
But wait! What’s that
When I stretch my eyes
I find there in the distance
A village, of sorts
A few houses at best
But they mark the farmers existence
Perhaps it’s there
That more playful life
Also does exist

Afoot Up High (day 126)

Wandering, wandering, wandering I go
Up and up and up it winds
Through the bush I gallop along
To the top, it won’t be long!

Crashing through the fields I go
One foot forward; keep moving on
The wildflowers here are radiant beauty
Up here so high, above the tree-line

The view, it seems, is perfect today
I’ve climbed so far, so far I’ve come
The top, I’m at, has all around
Valleys and peaks, and snow and lakes

But not for long, I do not fret
Soon it’s dark, it comes too quick
The path to go; a downward grade
Calls my name, and brings me home