Old man Ford, your orchard's dead,
your three-room shack's in shambles.
Your memory lives within my head,
but your farm's just briars and brambles.
Old man Ford, I can hear 'em bay,
runnin' through the hollers in a bygone day.
Runnin' through my nights while as a boy I lay-
like your Walker hounds you've long gone away.
Old man Ford, I still roam your hills,
as I'm carried along as the spirit wills.
Like a wild song soothing all my ills,
lofting down the slopes as the valley fills.
As the valley fills with the cool of night,
as I tread on trails that were your delight,
as the screech owl wails, as the white-tails fight,
as the shadows come with the full moonlight.
Rest easy old man, I still hear you call,
you knew me then when I was not so tall.
I'm back again to absorb it all.
M.G. Sparks
