Poetry

Bound to the Land

I stand upon the very ground
Where once they stood before,
Look out across the velvet fields,
Waves dancing to the shore.

The wind a gentle fragrance blows,
A timeless scent it brings:
Salt sea, rich earth, and fresh-cut hay,
All familiar things.

The country lanes are winding still
Through scattered stands of pine.
I walk along those very paths,
Their footsteps now are mine.

I watch men toiling on the land,
And fishing in the bay,
The women tending to their stoves,
And children hard at play.

Although I feel their spirits close,
Mirages I have seen.
They are no longer here with us.
Long dead they all have been.

I sense a ghostly presence, tho',
Which takes me by the hands,
And guides me up the gentle slope,
To where God's house commands.

They take me past the gardens grown
Up thick with brush and weed,
Beyond the homesteads, empty now,
Towards the church they lead.

And there, beside His earthly home,
Now sleeping without fear,
Their souls remain forever bound
To land they held so dear.

Copyright © 2004 Dan MacDonald. All Rights Reserved. Reproduction without the express written consent of the author is strictly forbidden.

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