For Forty Summers Poem by ANDREW BLAKEMORE

For forty summers I have lived
And felt the sunlight on my face,
Within the meadows where I walked
And daisies always grew,
Beneath my feet amongst the grass
Like snow that rested on the ground,
And there the warm and gentle breeze
Once dried the morning dew.

And there beneath the woodland's green
I found the cool and leafy shade,
And rested there so many times
More than I care to know,
For every year I longed to see
The trees so broad and mighty stand,
And felt they were a part of me
Where I myself did grow.

The birds once sang so sweetly there
And squirrels climbed the ancient oaks,
To gather stocks of winter food
They hid beneath the fern,
But autumn shall not come again
Nor shall the woodland turn to gold,
The creatures gone the birds have flown
And never will return.

For forty summers I have lived
To see the beauty of the land,
But now it has been cleared away
No longer shall I call,
To smell the flowers of the morn
And hear the songs from lofty boughs,
So plain the barren silence rings
A toll of death to all.