FIELDS
We city children born and bred
A cement world from dawn to bed.
Days past it seemed to make more sense
The concrete slab and chain link fence.
FIELDS!
Summer never failed to heat
The tar of roofs and city streets.
Not as breeze to move up or sway
The crowded masses of the day.
FIELDS.
Shouts of hucksters, horns and fumes;
Intruders into stifling rooms.
And noise from where the factories stood;
The concert of the neighborhood.
FIELDS.
In books alone escape was found
Dreams of treading virgin ground
Of open space and open air.
We found so many others there!
FIELDS.
We could count as precious few
The lands where trees and flowers grew.
Behind the farm that’s gone would come
Townhouse and condominium.
FIELDS.
And yet the dream still gathers seeds
To nourish what the spirit needs.
No planning, no surveyors touch
Where raising fence would be too much.
FIELDS.
Just simple need for you and I
To tread the earth and see the sky.
Be grateful for what nature yields
Is disappearing, blessed fields.
Janet O’Neill ©
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