The Road To Miss Weatherbys
When I was young, eight years at most,
I pedalled to Miss Weatherby's house...
down the street,
past salty old codgers
cheating at checkers,
past Dad's bakery,
around the bend to duck ponds with
silly-faced Buddha frogs
showing toothless grins,
past the poor shack-lodgers,
speeding by the boogie man's
house on the hill,
down a plank of brown road
to the stand displaying Ann's handbags,
across from the palette where
buttercups wag in topaz fields
swallowing golden pepper rays,
to the cow path ending at
Miss Weatherby's picket fence.
She stands with apple cheeks and
a gray bonnet, plucking roses
from vines, placing them in
plaid apron pockets, and tossing
toasted crumbs to red hens.
She gives me tan eggs and I
pay her with blueberry muffins and
conversation...then back up the road again.
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