Bush shack

BUSH SHACK Forlorn, long deserted, barely standing, Bush shack, humpy, still, a home, Those walls once rang with laughter, So far from town, alone. Walls? Long stout logs, sealed with mud, Small windows in the side, They never knew glass fixtures, Chaff bags did reside. One whole end devoted, To an open fireplace where, Huge logs would burn, for warmth, to cook, For the folks who once lived here. Imagine the camp oven midst the coals, On a freezing winters night, The aroma of a rabbit stew, Fresh baked bread, goumets delight. Table, chairs and benches, Roughly hewn from logs, A set of bunks upon one wall, Rough double bed, tells stories all. A small lean to, out on the back, A laundry it would seem, Once upon a time, in history, This house, a young wife's dream. Floors of dirt, tampered down, Still hard and firm as rock, The spirits of this old bush home, Look upon, soft voices mock. No water, just a dam out there, Beyond that fence, so far. Carry buckets, what a load, Use sparingly, worth more than blood. There in a recess of the wall, A treasure beyond compare. A worn Bible, a candlestick, Holding them, heart beats quick. How many children did she birth? How many did survive? What manner of a man was he, That stood here, by her side? What toils, trouble, love, happiness, From this place out here did flow? If only old adobe walls could talk, I would surely love to know What hardship did she suffer? Did joy and love overcome all? Were they both still together, When sweet death did pay her call? Inquisitive questions remain unanswered, But in my minds eye I see, A place of love, growth, and faith, This old bush shack does be. Written December 23rd, 2001 © on Dec 23 2001 02:26 PM PST, Patricia Rosenberg   0 • 10