Small things

Jane Dougherty Writes

Our private wilderness

Cleaned and rearranged

A parade ground of trees

PENTAX Digital Camera

Rows of saplings

march in spindly ranks

across the wasteland.

Once the rusting girders

of forgotten engines

lay beneath a dancing riot of creepers.
Sleepers

silver grey

slept

among the flowers,

the debris of an era

fragments of a busy past

washed clean by rain

and scorched

of all the oil and soot and noise

by summer sun.

Quiet now, picked clean

wood and iron revert.

But the saplings march

and in the van the diggers dig

clearing land billiard table flat

and the memories are dragged away

and buried

where the murmur of their voices

won’t disturb the joggers.

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They dug up the field

Where long meadow grass

Cradled old boats laid to rest

Their paint faded forget-me-not blue

To plant rows of tidy trees

PENTAX Digital Camera

There was a place

Beyond the town

Where grass grew tall

And a…

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