poem by me: ephemera


A graveyard once stood there,
and over here a courthouse, grand,
with sweeping stair and pillars tall.
Across this field there swept a tangled net
of streets and alleyways,
endless traffic; listen, you can hear it yet:
the thrum of motors, people streaming
to and from their homes, places of work
and play. Ask any one of them,
they say it would be so yet, to this day.

But it's not.
There's a cherry tree,
Here's a barn, with cows and hay,
and one lone swallow sitting on the eave.
And you and I are all alone,
'til we go in, to supper
and to home.