THE OLD HOMESTEAD
You see them on the roadside sheltered amid a ring of Oak trees, abandoned and forlorn. Echoes of forgotten laughter and tears float on the wind.
Lilac bushes in wild profusion, planted at the beginning, bloom, not knowing that the dream has changed and life has moved on. Like a fingerprint on the land, like an empty glass on a table after a party.
Yellow Daffodils nodding in the sun form an outline where the house once stood. I watch as a women in an apron and cap hangs her wash in the fresh Spring breeze. She knows I’m watching from afar and for a brief moment her dream still lives.
By Jane Johnson