Born into rough folk-worn prose

30 years too late and I’m still looking on ways of making my days seem long

And my nights grow still

Raised on south Kalkaska Soil

With the smell of cold, and kindled purple ash leaves culled from the eavestrough (piles)

And the wasted storm-filled afternoons spent watching lightning veins and snow-choked gales

And from my little back bedroom, I can hear the world outside

Hum of a freight train running, Air Chimes opened up wide

Sound of Four Winds blow rising and falling,

Crying and calling to me

Basked in a stark suburban din

Just marking time in places not on my own but somehow alone and tired

Of finding myself

A chorus of soft mew-flown wings

Took me far from home and now I’m sort of amiss about just where home is these days

But I see, by them roadside graves, a trailhead up the way

Might as well see where it’s going

And from my little back bedroom, I can hear the world outside

Hum of a freight train running, Air Chimes opened up wide

The sound of Four Winds blow rising and falling,

Crying and calling to me…

Born into rough folk-worn prose

30 years too late and I’m still looking on ways of making my days seem long

© 2008 Shaun Cromwell