No hydro line went into the old farmhouse
a sister and two brothers lived alone
they farmed by horsepower and they never painted
the hard frame house the colour of dried bones.

Year by year they farmed into their nineties
and stories grew about how they were tight
a visitor who came to gather silence
could wait all day and even into night.

The old windmill they used to pump their water
the wagon that they hauled to gather hay
the windows in the night so dark and silent
and all the strange things people wont to say

had no effect on them they went to bed
and godless lived ’til they were doubtless dead.


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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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