Bucolic

The smell of honeysuckle budding 

The view of a once lively countryside now abandoned 

The sounds of young children laughter that once filled the air

Is now the sounds of loneliness and despair

Looking over yonder the great plain filled with lots of peanuts and grain

The eye's watch us of an old farmer that was once young like we are

Graze through the garden of uncertainty  

But still I travel through the efflorescence meadowland

To only be met with a shaking hand and a cold glass of sweet tea

To hear the life stories of an old man makes me think about my pa

But the day is growing old and so is he so we finish up our chatter

And as we make our way back to the lively, vivacious city the puissant smell of honeysuckle

Catches my nose and I remember the love I have for the Bucolic 

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741