Singing With The Country Road Poem by Chi

Singing With The Country Road



At eight to nine pm, I am alone,
on the part-gravel part-tarred road,
no car ahead of me,
none behind.

From the farm house to home,
it's is about twenty minutes.
Make it an hour, I wish I could,
for there’s so much to breathe in,
before I see the bills.

There's the stirring breeze of dusk,
the death of all the churning
or cutting engines of day:
of chain saws and lawn mowers,
tractors and boat engines,
Halley bikes and roaring cars.

There’s the sunlight
that penetrates through the clouds
leaving them with celestial streaks
on their downside;
that penetrates the canopies,
and taints the leaves of spring
with golden hues

three Canadian geese home
at their usual hour,
their hollow calls circling
above the lake;
and the evening birds, each to its perch,
defends it’s territory,
as it's beak assaults the air
with an endless song,

and for me it’s the song
of the tires that turn on the gravel road,
the hum of the engine,
the nostalgic strains of jazz
from the car radio –
that stirs my mind into a trance-like travel,

the long-forgotten places
I would gladly revisit,
and the silhouettes of love songs
that are now but echoes
of a youth that was once carefree
and golden.

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