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”.
Copyright ©
Michael East
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