North
Sunday sun floating high,
Sleepy clouds drift the sky,
Gentle breeze dancing slow,
Chasing tall grass to and fro.
Winding river gurgles and chokes,
With darting minnows the current jokes,
River stones holding fast,
Sitting still like polished glass.
The deep pools glimmer and shine,
Descending deeper than the mind,
The bouldered shore sits in wait,
For broken waves to meet their fate.
Pudding stone mountains tower above,
Blinding white like feathered dove,
The rugged land reaches on,
Through the meadows that welcome dawn.
No matter how far the fool roams,
This is the place to call home,
The stubborn compass pointing forth,
Follows the beckoning call of the North.
Copyright © Tyler Cooke | Year Posted 2019
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