The Day the Farm Died

A mist hung
in the air
that morning,
clinging to life
as the rays of the sun
cut through like a knife.

The tractors
were standing at attention,
and the barn cats sat hungrily in wait
for their master, to come
up to the mow with their plate.

The kettle was silent
and the tea-stained cup was empty,
the cigarettes still in their pack
and the eyeglasses by the book
on the table, lay lifelessly,
like the faded brown coat on the hook.

And the trees bowed down low that morning
And the crops in the field let out a moan,
in the wind
as it swept up the branch
that knocked at your window;
telling you it was time to come home.


(C) Copyright  2001
Deborah L. MacDonald-Beauchamp
All Rights Reserved