By Herbert Jones
One evening as the dusk came softly down,
Walking along a road outside the town
I watched the sunset burning low and red,
And heard the leaves a-rustling, dry and dead,
Harried by breezes to their wintry bed.
By chance I passed a fire beside the way,
With small flames leaping in their impish play.
Bright in the dimness of the dying day;
And as the wind blew smoke across my face
Around me all the Bush rose up apace.
The great dim forest blotted out the farms
And close around the red fire flung its arms,
Canoe and portage, tent and camping place,
Ghosts in the wood smoke, lingered for a space,
Then passed, and with them went a comrade’s face.
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