The death of an old mill town
There is a town some distance south of here, a place called Harwington, an old mill town, one of the thousands scattered about from a distant time of prosperity and great labors.
Standing watchfully near the flowing rivers are the abandoned shells, the broken backs of that mighty industrial age.
Abandoned, unkempt, likened to an old hobo wishing for renewal. No longer
bustling centers of activity, friendship and hope. There are few left to remember and they, dwindle weekly, unwilling to depart from that which had given sustenance and life, unwilling to leave and old friend, bereft and alone. They sit upon the sagging verandas in decrepit old rockers watching the river still flow these ancient folk in their time machine.
An occasional vehicle passes by. Some at speeds so great they are hardly seen while others a pace so slow it seems in tune, a wave from the porch and returned in kind from the machine.
Chickens and rooster don’t seem to mind and pay no attention to the old cow
in the pasture next door. The mouser keeps careful watch at the verandas base knowing the job she must do and ever so willing. Proudly she will display her latest gift at the door.
The family dog once a great and proud hunter of duck, deer and quail no longer works the forests and fields. He sits besides that rocker his tail keeping time with the back and forth. That rocker, his metronome.
His dreams are also ancient and filled with paws so rapid upon prey.
On a rope strung from tree to tree, hangs the days wash the cloth as grey as the day.
A lonely bell rings on Sunday and call all who will come. Those that can, do and others unable to oblige will later receive a visit, a gift of friendship and hope of a promise of renewal to come. The reverend comes calling and sits on those ancient verandas with those ancient folks and watches the river flow. All now at peace and time now to go.