AN OLD LOG CABIN
The walls were broken, the roof half caved in,
Yet a window caught the sun, what was within?
A broken pot bellied stove, a broken table and chair,
A couple of old bunk beds full of horse hair,
The door was closed tight as if to keep out the cold,
How many songs were sung ? how may stories told?
Is that a broken hitching post close by the old door?
And a rusty bucket for water on the uneven floor?
Is that the wind whispering or folks of days gone by
Telling of the things t hey did, or did the trees just sigh?
How many souls were sheltered from the freezing cold
When it was young and sturdy and pretty to behold.
Let me sit awhile inside on that broken old chair
And listen in quiet reverence of the tales told there.

M Ann Margetson November 1, 2001