NOTHING LEFT
When I was quite small we lived on a farm,
Miles away from everywhere, free from harm
Of the big cities, only a couple of farms near by,
A store that sold everything, and a train that did fly
Past just a few miles away, it went just once a day,
No station, just a whistle stop, many things came our way
On that slow train from the city, I used to wait to see
Just how many coaches in the train there would be.

Our home was large, a kitchen always bright and clean,
Where often our neighbours chatting could be seen.
The barn held the horses that plowed the fields all day,
The stalls for the cows, and the sty where the pigs stay.
These were great treasures to me, a place I called home
A place from where I never did ever wish to roam.
A haven in all weathers, the door always open to all,
Especially in the cold of winter and in the late fall.

No place was better, no home ever loved so well,
Working together, so through winter we would dwell
With food enough in store and to be willing to share,
Knowing that there was always food and comfort there,
Strangers were never turned away who were in need,
Help with a broken wagon, animals needing a feed,
Folks needing shelter on some stormy cold night
And wanting a meal, some in an awful plight.

I went to return to my childhood home, nothing there,
No lovely home, with a stoop holding the rocking chair,
No barn where our shires rested at the end of a busy day,
No pathway or road that showed the very best way
To the store that was no longer there, everything gone.
My heart felt empty, because of all the work we had done.
But there stood a tall poplar tree we had planted years ago,
That was all that was left, oh, how my tears did flow.

No sigh that any life had been, no sign of a kindly deed,
No path or step that lead to a door open to those in need,
No swing, no big oak tree, nothing but my memories,
No acres of wheat that swayed like the mighty seas,
No dog, no cat or chickens hiding their eggs from me,
No laughter of children, not even the sweet song of a bird,
Only a rusty railroad line where trains past infrequently.
Just the sad sighing of the wind in the lone poplar was heard.

M Ann Margetson November 15, 2001