Not Quite a Poem

South Carolina Fall

It is not quite a poem though it would be had it a master worthy of its impulse. It is but at the hand of an apprentice a bit of prose yet with a lilt which would transcend its mundane form and become a goodly song, born of a memory of Grandma Peters’ declaration that the fall was “the thin time” when a body like Enoch might just walk from this world into the next.

Who Will Hear?

From distant ridge to distant ridge hunting horns serenading with stories before great fires;

Bobbing over hill and into hollow the fox hounds coarse voices;

The pitch of the pack rising with the tiring of the stag;

Watery break singing with a million mosquitoes;

Chip marring the widow with whippoorwill’s voice in April;

Shadow Tail mimicking the wind in beech trees;

An upland creek caressing an old log to bubbling song;

Duck wings breezing over a watery pin-oak flat;

Old front-porched ladies quietly lilting youthful ballads;

Kettle bidding good memories with steamy report;

Vespers spreading grace at supper;

The heart sighing slumber’s release from ecstasy, weariness or woe;

Old bones creaking with joy for the life yet there;

A verse reaching to heaven on dying lips.

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