Here I sit in the magic meadow and dream.
I dream of summers past,
Of mustard pulling and hay mounds,
And the aromas of farm life.


No one hurries about, not like my grandparents did,
Life has changed in sixty years,
But the meadow doesn't change,
The happy, cold little creek never changes.


The cold water comes from melting ice and springs
Way up in the mountain.
The water is cold ever in July,
It is a magical place, this meadow.


We kids played Sacks-on-the-Mill,
And we jumped in the mounds of hay.
We had no bought toys, just our imagination.
And catalogs, we loved catalogs.


We hunted for buttercup flowers and four-leaf clovers.
It was a hunt like a hunter hunts and stalks.
We were never bored and always needed more time to play,
Night came early, so did morning and hot breakfasts.




By Brier (Brierhillbarbara@aol.com)


 

 

 






Watch these pages for other poems by Brier.
In the meantime, click the links below for
poems and stories by our other authors.



Days

It Is April

The Missing Piece

Old Treasures

No Barefeet

Wind Chimes

On The Shore

Betsy Wetsy

The Earth Stirs



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