The Ancient
Things have changed worldwide today, but not the joy
Of spring. The sounds I heard when yet a child
Of cataracts tumbling with joy, the air rinsed of alloy
And magic in all things pastoral, all things wild
My son walks around the place a walkman to his ear
He will not hear the sparrow's song
Shall not know the canaries in gold are seen here
His dreams to the automaton belong.
Look at them, their feet all wrap, expensive in plastic
Shoes, they cannot feel between their toes
The water river running free, cornered in this tragic
Sense of progress, full of unbalmed woes.
Here where the sun laddles her warmth down the sky
On bowl of stoops made from concrete
They collect to laugh, as maggots lad by a fly
While green grass and park lay obsolete.
Before there was a phone, my mother called down
The mountainside and telegraphed her joy
A new grandchild swaddled in the rising sound
Was introduced by what tradition employed.
We ran to school eight miles away and never grew
Obese, that training unclogged us to learn
Something each day by nature brought to view
Wrapped in beauty, and made us yearn
For things we could not make, love, honor, freedom
A sense of greatness beyond our state
A simple ant could teach us prolific vaults of wisdom
A patterned sky could be a living slate.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2009
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