And So To Golden Days Poem by kathleen bartholomew

And so to golden days

Golden plough marked, ear ripened corn, on
a hill sloping towards the hidden river bed,
not active now—only when it rains a lot;
as if it forgot how to run.

The lone straggly tree, casts its shadow over the corn,
the warm westerly sun soaked field, rolls
on towards the roofs,
the house, the cowshed, the barn and two telewag poles.

White walls, apex sticking up,
reaching-
indirectly to the majestic sun
setting, slowly, surely, still warm
amidst the two hills meeting,
cuddling the farmhouse.

I see this expanse on tip-toe -
Over the 5ft.6 inch wooden fence;
peering through,
between the lowest bough and branches
of the Eucalyptus tree

to the adjacent meadow field,
with mare and foal running free.
Her white main flowing as she dances
and the colt prances after her.

The M1 intrudes, slices this in half and brings
to life, the last of the busy working day.
north and south.
The lorries groan and drone on home, homeless.
-and the cars zip by.

Home… to their kids, the wife,
the friend, the husband,
the grandma, and the sadness and the bliss.
Their lies and lives like this.
the southbound traffic leads us

back to the brick chimney- stack
with yellow pot on top.
Leans—forever adorning, adoring
The flighty white clouds in the feckless pale blue sky.
The August moon will soon
be up to take the day away.

By Kathleen Bartholomew