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Poem

Down the dirt road of the old farm village,
where the sun sinks low, casting long shadows,
each weathered cottage tells its silent tale.

Creaking porch swings, paint chipped and peeling,
invite a rest for those with stories to share,
as the wind rustles through the ancient oaks.

Narrow lanes, worn smooth by generations,
beckon with memories etched in cobblestone,
and the town square, a hub of quiet gatherings.

Hens cluck in backyards, scratching for stories,
their feathers worn like the pages of a well-read book,
while the blacksmith's hammer rings a rhythmic echo.

Chimneys exhale fragrant whispers of hearth and home,
as the church steeple, a sentinel to the passing years,
marks time with a soft tolling that lingers in the air.

Children's laughter, a lively brook, meanders,
through meadows where wildflowers nod in agreement,
and elders, leaning on picket fences, share the day's musings.

In this old farm village, where time moves slow,
shadows dance on the worn planks of the general store,
and the river, a quiet confidant, mirrors the stories untold.

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