Where I am from <br /> Old oil wells rise, <br />Green pastures, green hills, <br /> And solemn grey sky. <br /> <br />Snow in the winter, <br /> And mud in the spring, <br />Warm summers with bugs, <br /> Crisp fall air that stings. <br /> <br />Blackberries, briars, <br /> And bushes abound; <br />With places to hide, <br /> And woods all around. <br /> <br />Dirt roads to the farms, <br /> And old roughneck sites. <br />Country bridges to cross, <br /> And miles on your bike. <br /> <br />The small town in the valley, <br /> Where creeks all run through, <br />Old churches, and shade trees, <br /> And a skating rink too. <br /> <br />And a railroad and trolley, <br /> From oil well times; <br />An old school, an old playground, <br /> And a mineshaft to find. <br /> <br />And there are people and friends, <br /> Though most of them old, <br />And old men from a war, <br /> With their stories they told. <br /> <br />There was seldom a stranger <br /> In our valley so fair, <br />Like birds we all huddled, <br /> From the unknown out there. <br /> <br />And the people, the places, <br /> The sounds and the sights, <br />Are fond memories at best, <br />But can keep you from flight. <br /> <br />And fly yes you must, <br /> From where oil wells rise, <br />From green pastures, green hills, <br /> And from solemn grey sky. <br /> <br /> 2001<br /><br />Gary Bryson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-hometown/
