Home
Run over here come to me in this place
where the creek goes between the woody hills
and flows to the pond, where spiders make lace
where the streams meet and come to end their rills
Where the dirty old white horse takes his drink
his tail batting away the buzzing flies
and the sun comes and turns the water pink
where the wind blows over the pond, and sighs
The cattails rattle on the northern shore
and look over the pasture to a barn
old, rusted hinges and a broken door
and the hay weaving through like golden yarn
This worn-down place is not a grand manor
But it's home, and I wave its' torn banner
8-20-2018
Copyright © Brahn Bailey | Year Posted 2018
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