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Along the Yadkin

by David Hill

Along the Yadkin,
where leafless trees expose empty nests,
there is an earthen river odor,
rich and carnal.
In the newly mowed field
dank hay is spiraled in bales
ready for cattle consumption.

Household discards in a heap
nestle in vines and thistle,
then spill vulgar down the bank.
A gold enamel fry pan, crushed and limbless,
brown cooking oils film the bottom.
A stained and stinking sofa
musty, molded, bug infested
tingles my spine.

Wax drip on a plastic Christmas candle
now a weapon with jagged busted bulb.
Some bygone childÂ’s delight, a plush Pooh bear
eyeless, tattered, soiled, ugly in matted fur.
Wood grain veneer peels back in curls
from the TV set, the screen kicked in
the plastic case melted and deformed,
Motorola, dials and rabbit ears.

I imagine the family,
bacon aroma and sizzle from the pan,
glow from the cheap decoration
orange warmth in a window,
early morning excitement in a child
over the toy beneath the tree.

The tiny family unit,
all of the workers and factories
the materials and knowledge,
all those careful miracles,
decay beside this river.


Author's Note: brown river melancholy

Posted on 08/24/2007
Copyright © 2024 David Hill

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 08/24/07 at 02:38 AM

Your writings are always a gift for me - rich observations of past and present, evoking emotions and appreciation.

Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 05/25/14 at 02:33 PM

Very good to see this as POTD!

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