There’s a wind blowing in the barley, a stirring and a breeze,

While memories come fleetly and dance among the trees.

The wind bears a memory of days, sunlit days of youth,

When the only lessons to be learned were of life and youth.

It carries me back along the countryside and I relive those precious days,

Counting the joys, sights and smells, in old familiar ways.

I welcome the wind that blows, bringing melody and song,

Knowing I’m a part of it as it carries me along.

Now, nearer the end of life, I listen for it early,

To hear its gentle, lilting song, the wind in the barley.

by Tom Stratton