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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required It happened many years ago, just after World War ll. When I was just a little girl with lots to see and do. A visit to my cousin's house, ten miles northeast of town, Would cause the frown upon my face to flip flop up-side-down. I stayed for just a week or so and shared her saggy bed: Told silly jokes and giggled, as sleep hovered overhead. Then came that awful morning when we took our country walk. The day would start with sunshine and much childish, girlie talk. Mowed stubble in an open field, each bare foot placed with care, As well as dirt road trod upon, with stones and pebbles there. But what we were to come upon, while meandering on our way, Is not a sight that any child might come upon today. An old shed there beside the road, not even tucked from sight. A charnel house with death inside: bad dreams to come that night! The hog and steer hung upside down and both were split in half. The pig above a rusted drum, prepared for scalding bath. Their innards heaped beside the shed, a pile of sickening gore. Two heads with glazed and staring eyes, would view the world no more. A slaughterhouse for all to see while happening to pass by. Run by a neighboring farmer who did butchering on the side. We stood transfixed and watched him work, his lips pursed in a whistle, As he dunked the hog in the scalding drum: later scraping off the bristle. And sadly we took a closer look at the face of that old steer. Two days before we had patted him in a field not far from there. That gentle old beast in a pasture, unknowingly chewing his cud. Now a dead and lifeless thing, defiled with sawdust and blood. We trudged home in solemn silence, our innocence badly bruised. The world, though still an open book, had new . . less pleasant rules. A lesson in our lives to come of the callousness of men, With many more lessons to follow, before this world will end. Now when I see children learn about death, while watching pretend CGI; Two little girls will still come to mind, and the old steer that made them cry. © 2015 Diane Lefebvre
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