Friday, March 4, 2011

Old Billy

Hay bales,
Out in a field alone,
Strange forms out of season,
Capped with snow
And withering in the winds.

The farmer lived long and alone
After Lizzie died that spring a-ways.
A man with outsized hands
And sinewy arms
Who spoke in long silences.

Shades on the old house
Pulled well down against the light.
Inside the shadows
And cobwebs mingle like lovers.

Barn roof
Sagging against the weight
Of age and the weather.
Silo boards rotting,
Only the odor lingers in the barn.

The bales
Curled in fetal rolls
Across the neglected landscape
Just a remainder that
At the auction no one wanted the hay.

Photo is of Bill and his youngest sister, 1903.


Tamela's Place said...

So descriptive, it was as if i was there seeing it all :)

Marbles in My Pocket said...

Nice one,Larry. This is so vivid and descriptive. You painted a picture we could see. Very nicely done!

Morning said...

very visual,

love it.

Happy Poetry Picnic.