The Poet of Glender’s Grove

I used to watch him when he passed
Stomping down the frosty grass
An old, silent, stone of a man
Passing with pipe and books in hand
He’d climb the path to Glender’s Grove
And stay the day, all alone
They said he’d wed but once
And that she’d died very young
But as sure as dawn he’d climb those hills
With his thin, aged legs, and iron will
I liked to follow far behind
And hide and listen to words sublime
As he read to a ghost no one knew
And exhale sweet pipe smoke grayish blue
While he sat under the cedars, coat pulled close
His collar turned to block the cold
In the tall grass, I'd lay and listen
To Byron, Whittier, Scott, and Emerson
Then one morn he didn’t show
But by dust we came to know
They'd found him frozen with poems and pipe
And a faded photo of the love of his life
Now they say there’s phantoms in these hills
That you can hear him, when the wind gets still
Tho' some may doubt it, I'm one who knows
It’s only the poet of Glender’s Grove.

Copyright 2007/Stan Simons
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