The Rolling Greens Poem by David Welch

The rolling Greens seem so serene,
forests pristine in sunlight's sheen,

tall, rounded peak, a rocky creek,
a red-tail's beak, rodents he seeks,

an aged elm, rare in this realm,
stands at the helm and overwhelms,

small dairy farm of rustic charm,
blackflies will swarm, cows takes alarm,

dunn Whitetail deer are grazing here,
jolt up in fear when folk are near,

the turkeys flit amidst the grit,
then stare a bit, and quickly split,

a low rock wall that never falls,
it stands not tall, not grand at all,

big boulders strewn, they look hand-hewn,
but Ice Age moons, carved them to runes,

where barns once stood, now quiet woods,
the land's green hood, trees here grow good,

an old dirt rode the once did know
how horses rode with wagon loads,

slopes without trees where people ski,
and summer sprees, big tent parties,

vacation house always allows
the city crowd to come get out,

most local folk thing them a joke
but won't provoke, or they'll go broke,

quaint breakfast place, that maple taste,
tall-stack pancakes to feed the face,

hippie type, smelling quite ripe,
their ideas tripe, never quite right,

a breeze of cold, autumn unfolds
with colors bold, Green Mountains roll.