Poplars

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Poplars
Sophie Boswell

Golden poplars grace this land; this parched and sunburned land
When autumn breezes turn the leaves and seeds fall on dry sand
While poplars stretch their leafy arms, as if waving goodbye
Perhaps to another year or the drivers passing by
Having put on a show of brilliance that stands out for miles around
And bringing a whistling song when there usually is no sound

A row of poplars, at their best, will lighten any heart
Especially at sunset when their gold is quite apart
From the usual bush colors - ocher, beige and brown
And their coat of fluttering leaves becomes a magical gown
That leaf by leaf gently flutters back to earth
The sacred place of their birth.

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