Always

We walk past the blackberry

bushes, to the clearest

brook untouched by men

running free

near "Fairy Glen."

In this silent meadow

the highway is not heard.

We find where

the ponies come to rest

and birth their foal.

Where no one could step

we make a pile of old, brown

bottles, gather broken glass,

bury a discarded container.

Like rain, silence returns again.

A red squirrel scolds us for taking

his acorns, ponies come for fallen

apples, the glen goes back

to the past, New Hampshire is home

for another year to her own.

About these ads
Sponsored Content by LockerDome

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...

Loading...

Save for later

Save
Cancel

Saved ( of items)

This item has been saved to read later from any device.
Access saved items through your user name at the top of the page.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You reached the limit of 20 saved items.
Please visit following link to manage you saved items.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You have already saved this item.

View Saved Items

OK