Thursday, June 1, 2023

My Oak Grove


By A. G. Adair

I sit in an oak glen I choose for meditation,
The air is pure, the sky blue, quiet prevails.
I ponder the wonders of God's great creation
As each of His creatures tells of its travails.

As a young and vigorous man I found great peace
From the hurry and hustle of the world so wild.
As an old man I find solitude, rest and ease.
I have returned to my youth where life was mild.

A chattering squirrel, the mournful call of a dove.
What is their message? Do they resent my presence?
Do they beckon in their own way their object of love?
Whatever their call, it is part of life's essence.

For me, I issue forth no audible, resounding call.
From that inner, God given ability to communicate
With the ones I love, I issue forth my urge to all
To grasp my wish for them, their woes emancipate.

In early manhood came the great worldwide war.
We went - the many thousands to serve our land,
Across the world's oceans from my grove so far,
We crossed beaches covered with blood and sand.

Within my view, Joe lost a leg and Paul was killed,
The hell of war raged, I knew others were going down.
I wondered if ever the cannons would be stilled.
To us the loss was mighty, also to each one's town.

Eleven months, two days later the killing was done.
I had somehow survived the hell without a scratch.
I could now think of return to home and a life of fun,
Return to my oak grove and solace without match.
© 1995 AG Adair

Reprinted from the AMEA Publications magazine,
as written by the late owner-publisher, 1995

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