Young you were
and as green at least
as God’s gentle spring
itself
now laid
at your fast moving feet
that have chased away
the winter.

Yes, young you were
when the world was yours
and the mind was
an untamed warrior

And you running
full throttle round
the rainspout corner
and pulling up spry
on the tall veranda
to survey proudly
your vast cattle empire
which stretches
beyond the eye
can see
and at least to
the back yard fence

Then
swooping down fast
hot hard on the hunt
for ruthless desperadoes    
You
wearing the badge of
the law
pinned grand as galaxies
on your small boy chest.
You
hunting and fighting
mean hombres
and roping and branding
restless rustlers
You
running always
blind eyed into the teeth
of black death
A rough, rugged, shoot him dead
cowboy.

… and again and again and again
head long to the grave risking
your slender years for the cause
of grand justice
and however great the peril
you must surely
always
prevail.

So it goes till the sun slides
slowly at your mother’s shrill
calling and home again
you trek on the new soggy grass
which heralds the death of snow
and which sends
strong through the world
the musty scent
of smiling spring
which grows up to
your nostrils
and goes on up
unnoticed.

Ian David Arlett

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