The High Plains Dance

On the tram I talked to him; that Campbell man from FOE.
It was the ending of the week and homeward we did go.
We spoke about the weekend and the words I sometimes write;
He said he liked words ‘bout mountains to put upon his site.
So I scribbled down some words for him whilst riding on the train;
‘cos writing is a tool I use to help me feeling sane.
So here for you Mr Cambo, some words that might amuse
(I hope they won’t upset you, lest you should blow a fuse).
Please read my words of wisdom (or maybe they’re just trite)
And if you think them good enough, then put them on your site.

The High Plains Dance
Well freedom’s called “The High Plains”, a place to wander free,
where wandering’s the only way ”right here” the place to be.
Whether holed-up in a High Plains hut while storm clouds gather thick
or ambling free on sunny days with no need to be quick.
One thing’s sure and constant, up there in God‘s own land
whatever’s there and still unfound, will be a vista grand.
So throw a pack upon your back; forget that thing called “Time”,
for not to take it slow up there would surely be a crime.
That land’s as hard as rock and harsh, as everybody knows
But layered o’er the top of it’s a new world soft as snow.
Each Season is a whole new world so high up in the sky,
but o’er all, throughout the year, the Wedge Tailed Eagles fly.
It’s there you’ll find a bloke named “Cam” whenever there’s the chance
‘cos he’s a man who always loves to do “The High Plains Dance”.
Cam knows the rhythm of that place; it’s buried in his soul
and when his feet touch ground up there, you know he’s feeling whole.
So join him in the High Plains Dance and give yourself a treat;
You’ll easy feel it’s rhythm – it’s the rhythm of your feet.
It’s the tempo of the footfalls of whoever tramps up there
and once your Spirit feels that beat, you have no choice but to care.
I hope to see you there one day, a-wandering wild and free
then we can dance together; Cam, High Plains, you and me.

About a foolhardy florilegium

Nullius addictus iurare in verba magistri, quo me cumque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes.
This entry was posted in Green Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to The High Plains Dance

  1. Cam Walker says:

    damably nice, Mr Fletcher, thanks

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