The Campsite Poem by John Myshkoff
The Campsite
You could tell we were there
Our old tents still pitched
Fresh foot prints
Crossing one another
In the loamy earth
Hudson bay blankets airing,
Picking up the scent of spruce
Mingling with hickory smoke
From a comforting evening fire.
Rippling waters generously giving us
A tasty bounty.
More as perpetual invitation
To always return
By the shortest route
Saturday, July 16, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: camping
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5/6/2024 12:35:37 AM # 1.0.0.1119
This brings back fond memories of camping when I was young. Thanks, John