The sting of the wind
On this cold spring day
Reminds me of my
Ancestors who rode
This same wind
As they trudged to work
On early shift. 

This  connection, now, is
In my blood
Deep in what I mean 
When I say these words
In tones that rhyme.

Words that would’ve
Carried meaning in those
Hungry days
When this same old
Mottled sky’d
Pleased the eye of 
Those infected with
The old discontents.

So, in this frail copse
Of poplar trees and
Hawthorn bushes
A moment’s respite
Is offered me
As I watch these birds
Swing into this ghost-
Ridden air

And, just for a
Moment,
I’m not there.