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I have heard there is a graveyard somewhere in
the hills,
A quiet place where sarsaparilla creeps
Over crumbling markers, and tiny sapphire wrens
Dart through lacy fern fronds fringing mounds
where giants sleep.
Breezes sigh and sing there through the stands
of fragrant pine,
Seasons turn, the sunshine and the rain
Wander through the valley awakening faint voices
Calling phantom horses to work the logs again.
They answered their call long ago and gave their
honest best
Snigging rough trimmed trunks from where they fell,
Hauling heavy timber jinkers down heart breaking
tracks,
Or carting out sawn lumber to the railroad from
the mill.
Some died in the traces, bodies crushed and
tangled
Beneath high bucking saw logs sliding wildly,
un-controlled
A favoured few found freedom as the tractor took
their places,
Turned out to roam the forests, the young and
useful sold.
Rest easily, old workmates, walk through our
hearts forever
Your courage not forgotten- it sometimes seems that I
Hear a distant neighing and the thud of hoofbeats
passing
Softly through the valley where the gentle giants
lie.
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