A Pastoral

Walk between the husks of corn, coarse and currently inanimate,
And hear the whispering wind swirl, bringing to life
Things otherwise stagnate, though very much attentive,
While trees gently braid the hair of girls in white
And children dance around their roots
In circular uniformity to the wispy tunes of leaves.

A wet fence does not an English pasture make,
Though brown and sturdy it may be. 
I wonder if my star will fall from happier places
And meet me once again.
I’ve no one to talk to.
He who knew the starry skies
And darkness blank is gone now.
I’ve still very much to say.

The branches lofty make me sad
With tears falling from infant eyes
And cries of owls perched on high.
And so, it goes for any child
Who dares to walk these fields of green
With no one watching at their side.