The Broadlands...

Here's a little piece of home...

Rows on rows, out across the plain
Green wings are hallowed by a gentle breeze-
Spires of gold greet the coming day,
And through the mist, salute the watchful trees.

An old and careful spirit guards this land
Who beckons ev'ry leaf and little flower
To touch the sky and break the heart of man
That he may know the glory of an hour.

His tracks are to be found in ev'ry meadow
Though none may trace the swirling path he's trod-
One feels his touch when all the air is silent
And breathes him in the newly christened sod.

One hears him whisper in the flesping leaves
And snicker in the quick steps of the deer-
He slumbers in the hum of distant bees
And bids us keep the seasons of the year.

Though I fly to bloom in other lands
I cannot shake the soil from my feet-
The spirit of the broadlands follows me
And lives in ev'ry honest face I greet.