Cry of the Meadow

I hear the wind
The cry of longing meadow
Parched, breathless land of summer hit
Whispering, mumbling wind
Passing through trees
Flying over grass
Of my neighbors
With trimmed edge
Like a British school boy
As I’ve seen on TV
Every Saturday night
On British comedy shows
For twenty and some years
I, the resident of North Texas
An educated man of fifty
With anger of war
And sadness of children
Of lesser God
I hear the wings of the wind
Flying over my house
In this North Texas city
Of breathless summer hit