Friday, July 4, 2014

Home Hollow

There's a little valley where the path drops down;
A short way-a long way, out of trouble and town;
Green maize winding through woodland, copse and lea,
 For it's hidden in the mists of memory.
All the flowers of yesteryear blossom in its meadows;
All the cloud racks of today smile in rosy shadows;
The heart lifts glad wings, lightened of its load,
For there's Mother waiting at the bend of the road.
There's a little valley where a brook sings clear,
For pebbles, for grasses, for violets to hear.
Echoes chase each other through the hollow hills;
Day is filled with meadow larks, night with whippoorwills.
South wind's a-lullabying through the locust trees;
Katydid's a-chorusing with frogs and honey bees;
Night's falling, home's calling; faint from far away,
I hear Mother singing at the close of day.

-Mark Wayne Williams

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