Poetry
The Green Hills of Home
Leigh Harwood
The green hills of home are a dream to me now,
a half-forgotten song in the background of my mind.
Sometimes they seem to murmur, “Return… return…”
or is it just the summer wind rustling through the trees?
The summer wind of long ago, so gentle in the night,
carrying voices of crickets that chant two notes until first light,
never said a word to me. It never cried my name.
Yet now I seem to hear it sing, “Return… return…”
Sweet, golden haze of memory gilds the hemlock trees
like sunbeams in the morning fog.
It blurs the messy details, makes everything look grand.
It fills my heart with yearning for that distant, lovely land.
The hills are green no longer.
I never will return.
I carry home inside myself, a misty memory,
a half-remembered melody that murmurs to my soul.
a half-forgotten song in the background of my mind.
Sometimes they seem to murmur, “Return… return…”
or is it just the summer wind rustling through the trees?
The summer wind of long ago, so gentle in the night,
carrying voices of crickets that chant two notes until first light,
never said a word to me. It never cried my name.
Yet now I seem to hear it sing, “Return… return…”
Sweet, golden haze of memory gilds the hemlock trees
like sunbeams in the morning fog.
It blurs the messy details, makes everything look grand.
It fills my heart with yearning for that distant, lovely land.
The hills are green no longer.
I never will return.
I carry home inside myself, a misty memory,
a half-remembered melody that murmurs to my soul.
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Leigh Harwood is a nonbinary poet, clown, and peace activist. They live in the SF Bay Area with their partner, writer Bill Dunlap, two dogs, and their youngest son. Their book, Faery Gold & Other Poems is free on KU -> Kindle Edition or Paperback Version.
Hear them perform: “To a Gingko” |
