Far from lands of whistles and clocks
Exists a mountain of trees and rocks.
Far from the hustle of daily strife
Exists an ancient form of life.

From without subtle structures lie
Meadows made of hopes and dreams
Beneath a rune encrusted sky
Which melds our hearts with seamless seams.

Down a worn and dusty road
Built, unbuilt, and made again
Sits a lake worth more than gold
Impervious to the greed of men.

A land not mine nor yours, but ours
Where living souls unite
For God is in the rain and stars,
That shields us through the night.

His spirit do we see around
That fills this place with love
For no better art is found
Than that painted from above.

The shadows whisper secrets
That haunt us through the day,
But when we're at our weakest
Shooting stars will guide the way.

The dance of nature reveals to us
Our lives written line by line
In such a way that forces us
To follow in perfect rhyme.

The breeze combines with children's laughter
Their hearts fortified in jest of game
One drop of this will change all after--
Our lives will never be the same.

The Scouting spirit will ever last
In the lands of waking rest
Beneath the rocks and dew-soaked grass
Way out there in the west.

06/23/2008

Author's Note: This work is about a scout camp at which I spend my summertime.

Posted on 06/23/2008
Copyright © 2026 Jason Hannigan