Pratt's Pond Perambulations Poem by Gordon R Menzies

Robins hunt among the mossy tombs
and I am hunting with them
they, for red worms wriggling
me, for poetry among the stones
morning dew stains my boots
glitters on the beard grass border
the warp and weft of old families
scattered here beneath the pines
near the dry bones of Pratt's Pond
where trout no longer swim
stickleback and leech are gone
a tangle of trees guard the trickling
remnant of the elder creek, where
scabby wild boys once ran hungry
goldfinches flit and call, and call
and thistle holds sway ‘neath
the late summer butterfly dances
I stand with older ghosts scowling
at a golf course covering the pond
clucking our tongues in anger
longing for the view that was
and the peaceful rest for tired souls
stolen for commercial greed
and the dismissive distraction
of those who think they'll never see
this side of the water
a golf ball rests beside a tomb
and will lead their way here