from the main highways
across the blacktop roads to gravel lanes
with lonely silos towering above houses
with rusty screens and broken window panes
where people once lived and children played
cowboys and Indians and hide and seek
big round bales of hay
lined up for winter feed like coin-less canteens
next to huge planters
and combines
with exchangeable heads
small country church
where the family attended many generations
freshly mowed cemetery with names etched in stone
but life memories etched in minds
same familiar smells in sanctuary
of pews and piano and pulpit
soon overcome by the aroma of home cooked food
invading from the fellowship hall
old family recipes
with KFC from younger generation
always new kids
but whose kids
which cousin is parent
and which are grandparents
after a slow day under the shade trees
laughing at the same stories
re-told by new people
the cars depart
to return to the big cities
and traffic jams
to the modern houses
with two cars in the drive
and a lawn to be mowed
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Georg
You could smell the hay, and hear the children play. It sounds like you had a great time. Beautifully written.
Mary