How often I wandered
through the
waves of prairie
scrub,
or lazed on top
of a sun-drenched
mountain
to watch
the cloud ships pass.
On
a granite boulder
I often stood to
graze
across the meadow,
where
endless waves
of downland grasses
tossed
on a restless sea.
Those wasted prairies
no more
reach out to meet
the horizon,
where
once the wind tossed
billows swayed
and bright golden fields lie.
Where
I followed
boyish dreams, in thoughts
that sailed from faraway,
now furrowed fields
mark harborage safe,
where
ordered corn rows are.
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