Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,158
1-4
On Buckingham Mountain
we laid a plaid blanket on the grass.
The wind blew and whispered
through the eaves of St. Gilead's
as if the runaway slaves, free
at last under the broken stones
would tell us their stories
if only we'd listen.
They say when wind blows hard
there you can race the devil,
but we ate our sandwiches
and got each other too scared,
for the clouds loomed gray
and the hour late enough
to dim the sky, so we raced
each other to the car, laughing
so hard we gasped.
On Buckingham Mountain
we laid a plaid blanket on the grass.
The wind blew and whispered
through the eaves of St. Gilead's
as if the runaway slaves, free
at last under the broken stones
would tell us their stories
if only we'd listen.
They say when wind blows hard
there you can race the devil,
but we ate our sandwiches
and got each other too scared,
for the clouds loomed gray
and the hour late enough
to dim the sky, so we raced
each other to the car, laughing
so hard we gasped.