Progress

This is a song for things that used to be

For this was once a place most magical.

A wild plum grew here and in the spring

Filled all the air with scent and hum of bees.



One spring we lay beneath it on the moss

Beneath a canopy of blooms so sweet

As to create a wild, exotic dream

And thoughts so deep that we cannot recall.



To come upon this place was like a dream.

Out of a wood of brambles and dense trees,

You would emerge into a little glade

Where some strange magic made you wish to stay.



Here grew an ancient cherry with a root

That curled for you to sit in on the ground

And made you think it was inviting you

To rest your thoughts awhile in repose.



Here in hot summer it was always cool

And here we oft' escaped in the mid-day

To lay upon the bed of moss awhile

And hear the green leaves rustle overhead.



Sometimes we found a basketful of plums

Soft pink and tangy - tart upon the tongue

And it was like a present from the gods

A manna for the wild things and for us.



Oh that we could come back to you tonight!

And smell the spring-scent on last autumns leaves

And see your buds near bursting into flowers

And lay upon your moss for a short while.



But you are gone, this place is blank and bare.

The trees have all been pushed away. The moss

Is turned to mud that I am standing in

And all the magic has been swept away.