It was September when we drove along
A brilliant red dirt road
I remembered all the stories
That John McCornack told.
I’d been anxious to see the places
John nestles in his pages.
Old fences, barns and homesteads
Some collapsing now, in stages.
I felt close to you, John, my friend
As the sun on the red dirt gleamed
When I finally reached God’s country
It was everything I’d dreamed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem