The Last Barricade

The Last Barricade

A ridge of boulders runs across our place
And separates the field from a shade
Where wildness still reserves a little space
Against all odds — a sort of barricade.

There marmots live, and other wild things,
And lichens coat the rocks, and there the air
Is still, and underneath the rocks are springs
Which murmur. At times, deer nestle there.

In springtime mallow tints the nearby field,
Made desolate by someone with a blade,
Who, with some thought of monetary yield,
Instead, left us a priceless barricade.

Instead of gold, a marmot’s clarion call,
Instead of silver, rose-hips in the fall.