Visiting The Old Farm

Visiting The Old Farm


I ford the low creek, driving through the sparkling stream
And see the old farm house at the end of the lane.
Standing empty and lonesome, alone with its dream
That a family will come to live here once again.

A well and a bucket waits by the kitchen door
With clear water so cold it will make your teeth ache.
A wood stove stands sentry on the bare kitchen floor
As if ready for baking my Gran's homemade cake.

The shed door stands open as it did the last time
Grandpa brought in wood to build a fire in the grate.
The garden held vegetables plus garlic and thyme,
Morning Glory climbs on the fence and swinging gate.

Out in back of the house an outhouse is leaning;
You can still see the footpath from the kitchen door.
From a branch of the oak tree hangs an old tire swing,
But the laughter of children echoes there no more.

They are all gone but me; I wish someone could share
Memories I have of living on the old place.
I wish they could see my joy when I go back there.
Remembering the past puts a smile on my face.

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