The Hills of Memory: Blackberry Summer

Like Yeats, I have a piece tattooed on the inner chambers of my heart. I brush the palette on the canvas and a white farmhouse sits on top of the verdant hill, surrounded by the flowing blanket of ancient fields, where the gospel wind breathes the breath of God softly across my temples and brings me to a place, whispering through the branches of the trees, as my family and I sit in forgotten metal chairs, comfortable in our surroundings, unmindful of the groaning of the old metal. High in the trees are the angelic whisperers of Summer's sweet promise, declaring their family names, "Bob White", through the thick-tongued humid flow. Despite the burn of the Summer sun above our place of sanctuary, we are safe from the fire's burning and rocked among the rolling waves of memory and kept and preserved for tomorrow's dawning. The leaving of the light and the advent of the night bring no concern. Even in the fading light there is no concern, because we are all there together, again, in the metal chairs of yesterday, talking softly, again, among the muscular trees which stretch above us in the eternal Summer. From Highway 41 to Highway 79 to Dunlop Lane to Baynham Drive. The source from which our life's blood flows.