The Farmhouse
The Farmhouse
One evening before the sun was set
A memory came and stayed a while
Of a chalk white, sun bright path,
Untrod, passing by where I gazed
By a hawthorn hedge and a wooden style.
And I saw nearby a farmhouse stood,
Empty now and weather worn.
An old post box by an open gate,
In the sky the remnants of a passing storm
Above fields once gold with ripened corn.
It seemed now that a distant memory stirred
Where two children play and horses graze,
As if another had received the thought
And remembered that old abandoned place,
A farmhouse arisen from far past days
A letter lay in the collecting box,
The unknowing sender waiting some reply,
But no word came from that forsaken place
From that far farmhouse weather worn,
Only a distant memory passing by.
Barry Stebbings
March 2024
Copyright © Barry Stebbings | Year Posted 2024
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