There is naught but sweeter,
Than a child in song;
When the sun’s sweet golden meter,
Make days so long.

The midas orb looks down
Through green leafed shade;
Dappling the ground,
Soft gold inlaid.

Orange tiger liles wave
To passing bees;
Beckoning brash knaves,
Yes, ravish please!

The lady slipper sleeps,
‘Midst mosses green,
Coyed in shadows deep,
And rarely seen.

Bright streams run crystal clear,
Rainbows and brooks
Rise slowly to the lure
From watery nooks.

Coyote calls soon stir
The thickening night
And lightning bugs inspire,
In fancied flight.

Warm moon soon rises there
From out the ground;
Sailing on thin air,
Without a sound.

Horned owls hail the stars
In muffled calls
And cattle call afar,
In lowing bawls.

The moonlight gilds the grain
In silver bold;
Where sunshine will at morn
Transmute to gold.

The world aglow in peace
Soft on the farm,
Reminding of the place,
My song was born.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.