The Hay Meadow

Secluded field in pine hills,
the meadow stands still in time,
a lone patch of green grass,
surrounded by walls of trees.
At one time it was cut,
each summer for cattle feed.
Now the cattle are long gone,
the field overgrown with weeds.
I still recall its beauty,
the sanctity it brings.
Like a chapel I recall,
solitude amongst the green.
The hills still call my names,
years later as a man.
Forever will the meadow hark
back to the past and memories.

By Carl Thompson

meadow enclosed by green pines

Carl Wade Thompson is a poet, essayist, and the graduate writing tutor at Texas Wesleyan University. He has published poetry and memoir essays in The Mayo Review, The Concho River Review, One in Four, Anak Sastra, The Galway Review, The Blue Collar Review, Piker Press, The Eunoia Review, Blue Minaret, Nebo Literary Magazine, Alphelion Literary Webzine, and Labor: Studies in Working-Class History of the Americas. He lives on the outskirts of Fort Worth, Texas. His poems explore the link between the urban and the rural.

Photo by Volodymyr Melnyk

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