Reflections on the Farm; draft #5

15 years later I returned
to visit buildings I played around when I was a kid:
to walk by survivors of our colonial past
corn crib, pig sty, empty garages, and a barn built long ago,
ground floors diffused with the dung and dust of 200 years,
some still hoary-marked with faded rosettes
of white, green, dapple red, and sometimes pale blue.

As sheep owners we had enough lambs, one for each of the six of us.
On occasion we'd bridle them to posts like natural lawnmowers,
and we would take turns, the six of us, every thirty minutes checking on them:
except the time my brother forgot and was it irony that strangled his sheep to death?
Sheep's body lifeless and limp
it's eyes bulging and black
in the middle of field on a hot summer's day.

Flaked wood so bare the paint covered like a transparency
and the corn crib's simple rectangular skeleton
laid bare in old grey slats standing against time,
and for evenings reposes with its long lean shadow,
its body ripped
almost apart
now choking on an overgrowth of the thorn bushes and weeds.

My mind recalls sweat sticky evenings, bur bruised and thorn stabbed,
rough-housing only interrupted by the sound of metal against metal,
mother calling us to dinner,
banging heavy on a great iron triangle.
This dinner part made by an acre now come full
of cucumber, peas, green beans, corn,
and so many that the mind loses count.

Reflections on the Farm; draft #4

More than 15 years later I return
to ask permission from the Bass's
to visit buildings I played in and around when I was a kid
to walk past corn cribs and barns built of a now hollowed aged wood,
their lower levels diffused with the smell and sight of dung and dust
of 200 years,
still hoary-marked with a faded rosette
white and red and dapple green.

Sheep sometimes were used for lawn mowers.
Six of us, we'd check on them once every thirty minutes,
except the time my brother forgot and ironically his sheep strangled itself
to the ground on a hot summer day?

Flaking grey wood so bare of paint half-covers the corn crib
now a simple rectangular skeleton
who for evenings reposes with its long lean shadow,
its body ripped-almost apart by the tides of seasons gone by,
but now lays dying choking on the overgrown weeds
running amok in and around the legs and bowels.

MY mind recalls a simpler time:
iron ringing against iron
mother calling us to dinner
banging heavy on a great metal triangle.
This dinner part made by an acre now come full
of cucumber, peas, green beans, corn,
and so many that the mind loses count.