by Martin Swords
White steeples over branches.
White houses made of wood
At home among the trees.
Tall grass and meadows,
Stonewall homes to scampering things.
Sound of cars, grass-cutting people,
In quiet calm Connecticut.
New England sunset, sense
Of frogs and Robert Frost.
Split log fence and old walls
Tell tall tales unchanged of
Gentle manners, courtesy and friends.
Peace and order threatened by a new world
Rising, rampant, in an old state.
Yet save the quiet for even’ sun,
New England summer evening sitting,
Rocking, Robert Frosting on the porch.
Which road led here?