hay-barn was home to so many things
with shrivelled remnants of dried
tattered wings, the twisted corpses
insects, long since dead,
in tangled, tensile threads
of crumpled newspapers,
crisp, curled with age,
on some long-redundant mattress,
exposed, horse-hair and wadding
marauding field-mice and rats.
stacks of half-empty paint-cans,
on wormy, wooden boxes
once stored the Coxes
an orchard long-gone.
smell of times-past and the ghost
children's laughter, hang from musty rafters
the swallows still dive
a gash in the roof,
by some wild, winter storm
find their old nest, as yet safely cradled
the ancient, oak-beams
lined for this years brood.
a cruel irony,
in a few short months
barn will be laid to dust
in the field on which it stood,
long-eared barley grew so tall,
years crop will be sewn ...
red-bricked, terraced houses
their terracotta, tiled rooves
in regimented rows.
the hay-barn, topped with thatch
its mud-crafted cone
the young swallows hatched,
Ann Clatworthy lives and works from a small bungalow in the
heart of the English countryside. Her life-long love of poetry
is driven by her passion for her environment, her family, a black
and white cat called Chess and the whole of this crazy, wondrous
thing we call life.
Christine Ann Clatworthy