The Red Wheelbarrow
The old red wheelbarrow is still standing there
right next to my Grandfather’s fixed rocking chair.
Though neither has moved in a good many years
their presence revives former laughter and tears.
As children, my Grandfather placed us inside
the bright red wheelbarrow and off we would ride.
Down rough country tracks to the orchard we’d go
returning with plentiful apples in tow.
I once asked my Grandfather why it was red,
‘That was your Gran's favourite colour’ he said.
And red were the roses he laid by the side
of the grave where he mourned for his beautiful bride.
When Grandfather died, I just hadn't the heart
to cast on the scrap heap his rusty red cart.
And so by his rocking chair it shall remain
to take me on journeys down memory lane.
06/08/18
For Your Poetry Journal Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings
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