Poplars

START 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. END