Who is on that footpath now
Its green sweet grass pressed low
The wooden gate embraced by thorn
Where bramble, thistle grow
Does a faded print remain
From where I passed that way
A faint impression in the hedge
Where travel-worn I lay
Does the branch I snapped still lie
Severed, jagged, torn
Or has time smoothed the broken limb
The splinters weather-worn
Has the songbird stretched its wings
To venture as did I
Does the oak tree swell the earth
To fill the cloudless sky
Is the stone I turned still wet
The grass blades sun-starved white
A feather lying on the path
A wood dove took to flight
January 18, 1978
Poem written by a homesick young man days before returning to England after six years away.
© David Brewer
Its green sweet grass pressed low
The wooden gate embraced by thorn
Where bramble, thistle grow
Does a faded print remain
From where I passed that way
A faint impression in the hedge
Where travel-worn I lay
Does the branch I snapped still lie
Severed, jagged, torn
Or has time smoothed the broken limb
The splinters weather-worn
Has the songbird stretched its wings
To venture as did I
Does the oak tree swell the earth
To fill the cloudless sky
Is the stone I turned still wet
The grass blades sun-starved white
A feather lying on the path
A wood dove took to flight
January 18, 1978
Poem written by a homesick young man days before returning to England after six years away.
© David Brewer
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