Sleepy Oaks

Just read Frosts’ ‘Good Hours.’ Always a wonder how simple and plodding his lonliness is. It’s as if some mindful poetic reaction – not unlike a computer virus - took all my memories of empty cottages, combed them straight and laid them out in iambic rhyming rows.
That never happens when I read the Beats.
PS: That's not me in the pic. That's my younger brother Neil. I'm jus' sayin'.
　

Sleepy Oaks

When I returned to Sleepy Oaks,
I thought I heard my cousins and folks,
The old gray cottage standing still,
Gray clapboards window sill to sill

The face of old Mount Moosalamoo
Has cliff faces which to me used to
Look like roads flat on the hill,
I look at them, they seem so still

I walked down the old gravel way,
Which had not changed much since the day
When a kid I stumbled, playing drunk,
With an orange soda, ‘hic’, I thunk

But it’s the inside of this cottage |
Wherein we stayed, we played, we aged,
Our old voices I hear with ease,
Or are they oak trees, on the breeze?