Ode to 06002

Forever remember. Wherever

tumbling brooks run to the river

that ancient harts once forded;

far beneath the high lined tower 

on the mountain top where Phillip the King

was crowned and caved; 

A stone’s throw away, across a mountain drive, 

around the bend, up the path, deep in the wood,

maple leaves fall upon the farms as down through the ages, 

we sat upon western cliffs gazing in wide eyed wonder

as the sinking sun dipped beneath horizons of imagination.

On the back roads, sweltering sheds sheltered tobacco. 

Acres of corn rose in the meadows alongside mountain laurel

that swayed beside daredevil hills as the herds of Peter and sons 

grazed beside Metacomet trails, while back in town 

scoops of sweet, cold cream cooled barefoot summer nights.

This is a place where flyers still sell free for all,

Where old folks park along the avenue;

where growing boys and girls shyly hide 

from the prying eyes of Filley lights, 

and little ones still chase fire flies.

This is a place where, many waning moons ago,

Town met Country and Farm met Shoppe

and all ran together; from the old blue hills

to winding Duncaster, where the roads tied together

in the all American heart of Wintonbury.

This is the centering place where once upon a lifetime ago,

a child roamed the dusty summer gloaming

crossing cracked and rusted railroad tracks,

tossing pebbles at greying ghost trains that rumbled past

fallen lumber yards, running to a place he never knew.

For those whose time in this place is gone

For those whose time there still remains

This was and is for all of us, an ever treasured city,

crested and crowned by Blooming fields.

Wherever, remember. Forever.

HL August 2011