This trail is just a mile from me 8^): It is a real place, and I wrote the poem after walking the trail above the little town of Manns Choice. Davy Lewis was a real outlaw in these parts.
“Ode to A Mountain Trail”
George D. Stout
A bed of leaves on limestone trail amidst the Allegheny wood,
Meanders twixt the hardwood trees where outlaw Davy Lewis stood;
To watch the Forbes Road’s western path for stagecoach filled with travelers;
In route from eastern villages way back among the early years.
I walk alone, along this path where time has hid its mysteries,
And think about the here and now, and contemplate priorities.
What is this bent we all pursue, why do we hurry here and there;
We get there just to turn around and search another new somewhere.
Upon this road that few have seen there are no lights or blinking signs;
Just limestone benches, empty seats that host green moss and creeping vines.
The solitude speaks volumes to those travelers who wish to hear,
The whispers of those days gone by that drift through time from yesteryear.
Yet yesteryear is not so far when traveling upon this trail,
For distances within the mind are simply hid beneath a veil;
Of circumstance and rationale that holds us to the present time;
And can be traveled easily through thoughtful prose and seamless rhyme.
My longbow carried at my side I look behind me as I walk,
And glimpse a shadow moving there with breechclout, spear and tomahawk.
A shawl of buckskin on its back with fringe that hangs in strips of brown;
It disappears among the trees like noiseless flows of thistle down.
I sit upon the rock-strewn bank and listen closely to the sound,
Of teamsters bringing oak bark shards to stock the tannery south of town;
Their horse’s hooves reverberate upon the dirt road near the foot,
Descending down from Glade Pike Road, emitting clouds of brown bark soot.
I once again take up the trail a simple archer with his bow,
And think of those who walked before in autumn leaves and winter snow.
I hear their laughter and their cries, their fight to live from day to day;
With nothing granted from the skies, and nature’s gifts their only pay.
I contemplate how far we’ve come to this relatively easy life,
And say a prayer of thanks to those whose days were filled with stress and strife.
And though old times will once again be gone when I walk home today;
There is no doubt that history is just a mountain trail away.
Topic: Perfect Trad line of poetry (Read 703 times)
