when i was a child
my father took me for walks in the salisbury woods
the paths led down to the mouth of the merrimack
through tunnels made by boughs of oaks and elms

the woods had an allure
a mystery in it’s sacred silence
histories in the old appliances
left behind

the carriage trails conveyed us forward
by way of the river’s gravity
calling us from our mobile home in the swamp
through the crops of indian corn

off the trails were ponds with old clothing and leeches
by slats of old houses on decaying foundations
an old wagon wheel tangled in thorns and vine
mossy rocks littered with the hunter’s discarded shotgun shells

we completed our journey at the salt marshes
at the estuary on town creek
the water was painted gold by the sun’s wide brush strokes
the ocean’s fragrance in the air


Andrew Borne is 2 Cups Poet 1 teaspoon Musician 1/4 teaspoon Salt 1/2 cup Absurdity 3/4 cup Chef 1 egg, beaten 2 1/3 cups Family Man. Mixed together and served raw. His column 7x appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.