The Old Farmhouse On the Prairie
I see an old house alone on the plains,
abandoned a century or more,
wood siding faded to a chalky gray,
with rotting planks nailed right across the door.
Boards on all the windows, except for one,
and not a shard of glass left to be seen,
the door frames are hanging, bleached by the sun,
a hole punches right through the roof beam.
The old cedar shingles covered in moss,
some have come loose and are ready to slide,
scavengers came through here long, long ago,
there’s just moldy floorboards decaying inside.
I look at it all rising from the tall grass
killed by winter, it still stands in place,
beyond that a brown field of corn stubble
dominated this cold and vast rural space.
Did children once tumble though these tall tufts
when this old house was the whole of their world?
Were strapping young teens here hopeless in love
as they attempted to kiss their first girl?
Babies were born and conceived in these rooms,
this was a castle a man would defend,
now time has left it all shuddered in gloom,
derelict, and facing a sorry end.
You’d think something that once brought so much joy
would leave something much esteemed in its wake,
but nothing remains save the wind’s tired noise
as the tall walls slowly crumble and break.
The farmer should either fix this place up,
or strike a match, and burn it to the ground,
don’t let it die slow by a thousand cuts
because none could be bothered to tear it down.
Copyright © David Welch | Year Posted 2020
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