One rusty horseshoe hangs on a nail
above the door, still losing its luck,
and a work-collar swings, an empty
old noose. The silence waits, wild to be
broken by hoofbeat and heavy
harness slap, will founder but remain;
while, outside, above the stable,
eight, nine, now ten buzzards swing low
in lazy loops, a loose black warp
of patience, bearing the blank sky
like a pall of wind on mourning
wings. But the bones of this place are
long picked clean. Only the hayrake's
ribs still rise from the rampant grasses.
This poem reminds me of my great-aunt Olive's barn in Kingfield, Maine. There were farmers on both sides of my family, but none of us farm now.
I've gone missing, I know! But the long weekend that awaits (no school until Wednesday) will give me the time to progress on knitting, spinning, and exercise. Not that I've stopped; I just haven't devoted time to nattering on and on about it.
More tomorrow, with photos!