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Farm House on the River
by David HillThe sun rests behind a cloud
as fog falls to the river
in a misty rope.
My graceless feet,
shod in heavy boots,
grind the gravel roadway.
Number eleven,
a white cow with a pink nose,
is curious.
She shakes the octagonal tag
in her ear,
comes close to watch me pass.
Further along, a heron
lifts through the mist
like a river ghost,
half circles the hill
and disappears behind.
Around the bend,
the old house lies in ruin,
the chimney, a ragged
amputation, a jutting bone.
I remember
the window's glow at twilight
and the old hound trotting to me,
hoping for a friend.
One evening,
the farmer slowed to ask,
"Ya caught ya any?"
then rolled his old truck away.
I puff the cigarillo
run my tongue round the cherry tip,
the blue smoke rising,
and think about that last time
the farmer drove away.
12/08/2006 Author's Note: Trout fishing in America.
Posted on 12/09/2006
Copyright © 2026 David Hill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 12/09/06 at 03:40 PM You have captured this photo of americana with such sensory style. "grind of gravel roadway", the cow shaking that metal tag that tin-tins in that country air, both of which I can hear clearly. And my favorite is "a ragged amputation, the chimney, a jutting bone." Your fine use of the language tweaks this country gal's memories. |
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