A LONG WAY SOUTH OF NOW 

Down, down, down in the south of my childhood,
Drawn out dreams of days departed
Drape, like moss in limbs of bleached wood:
Shrouded bones, in a glade uncharted.

The memories flash like dusk heat lightning,
Or the fire flies that flit and flare,
But grow rusty like the screen door, sighing 
With creaks and groans in the hot night air.

These dreams of Dixie hang like the laughter 
Of small black children clear and sweet,
But bleed like fingers picking cotton,
And cling like the stale mill house heat.

Oh, they taste like a sweet ripe watermelon,
But crack, like the hard, red, sun-baked clay,
And just like a ripe, ripe fig start smelling.
A thing, once fine, that's spoiling away.

==================================

Notes:
As originally published the first verse read:

Down, down, down in the south of my childhood,
Drawn out dreams of days departed
Drape, like moss in the limbs of a pine wood
(Spanish moss, in a glade uncharted).