Crosby Mn

We are approaching where he grew up, Where his family is from, North Country Woods, green trees everywhere, farm Houses, a large sky blue, the white Birches stand beautify still. In the country air, old roads lead To nowhere, the brown and green Grasses lie everywhere. The fields Where the sweetcorn grows, They never end. He grew up Here, the red barns, the old still Wind, his family long since gone From the air he would have breathed. A land that surrounds can lose things. The smell of wood and the trees Grow older; the winter falls in snow, Then summer on the fields. The old Names of towns, places, mark the Beginning. They will leave no marker For him, over his head a large blue sky That knew, no one person, could last long, Or be remembered. The sweetcorn fields Are still growing, and they asked, “What Was his name? We remember him, it was Long ago, he was a boy and he slept near us”.