The Farmhouse

The Farmhouse One evening before the sun was set A memory came and stayed a while Of a chalk white, sun bright path, Untrod, passing by where I gazed By a hawthorn hedge and a wooden style. And I saw nearby a farmhouse stood, Empty now and weather worn. An old post box by an open gate, In the sky the remnants of a passing storm Above fields once gold with ripened corn. It seemed now that a distant memory stirred Where two children play and horses graze, As if another had received the thought And remembered that old abandoned place, A farmhouse arisen from far past days A letter lay in the collecting box, The unknowing sender waiting some reply, But no word came from that forsaken place From that far farmhouse weather worn, Only a distant memory passing by. Barry Stebbings March 2024