Life on my Grandparents farm. Red sandy soil and rocks all shades of tan and brown. A connection with Earth. A time of joy.
and post notes and photos about your poem.
I’m following the country road I learned to drive on
the old green ford truck, black rusty stick shift,
hand carved wooden blocks on my feet.
I glimpse a cane pole pulling a trophy from a small pond,
The low branches of a weeping willows
sweeping the ground like a broom,
laughter, innocent, young, still free, I look toward the sound,
sliding down a red, rusty, tin roof on a worn old barn
into a pile of fresh turned hay!
Through the mist I can see her
Swaying as she walks along the tree line
Humming a song she learnt as a babe
black berry stained face and a bucket half empty.
A scream guided me to a new day
she’s running up a Mulberry tree - stick in hand
a black and white Hampshire boar is displeased.
A grinding noise coming from where the old house lay
a devious smile as her finger lifted the ice cream freezer seal.
The rooster with red, green and gold starting his morning crow
taking the eggs as she kicked him avoiding his spurs.
She’s older now - on a white and tan spotted horse called Sparky
with giant hooves for kicking when the spring breaks.
Mocking her hero, bib overalls, an engineers hat, black rubber boots
shoveling quickly as the grain poured into the bed of the big red truck.
A crushed velvet chair with a sunken place on the arm where
she sat year after year and her ever growing weight.
It’s where she learned to sew - and sow she did imaginary things.
Mmmm, pies and cakes, wiping the flour off her nose!
Such hugs and happiness and youthful smiles
full of innocence and full of faith.
Driving across the brown and red rocks of the clear water creek
running, jumping in the cool deep welcoming pool.
Falling in the feather bed letting her body sink down and down
into the sun dried cloud of white fluffy comfort.
The wheels just keep on turning and turning,
within the moment of this memories journey.