All roads lead to nowhere,
except for the one that takes me home,
my favourite one that stretches
into fields of nothingness.
Bare land whose only
inhabitant is an idyllic peace,
held by generations gone by.
Sitting in the field’s centre
is a creaky, comforting farmhouse,
that’ll always exist
even as an everlasting memory.
Mind your head!
Watch the rafters,
which hang as lazily as
the farmer does,
on a long, long, so long Sunday afternoon.
His only companion is a Sheep dog
and the Murder of Crows that are sheltering in the stables.
Why not? All of the little ponies
have gone out to play.
People always say that there’s a difference
between loneliness and solitude.
A rocking chair endlessly sways,
as the chirping of cicadas fade into silence.
The farmer stares into serenity,
as the wind dances through the corn and barley.
The Murder of Crows take flight from the stables
and fly into the silhouette of the dying light.
So, this is the first thing I’ve posted on here in quite a few months, but I wrote this in a creative writing seminar I had. Our prompt was to talk to someone and get them to describe their home to you and from that we wrote a piece of writing. The girl I was talking to described her home as an old farmhouse in the middle of the country. Hope you enjoy. This was the second piece of writing that I have had published. I performed the poem at the grand launch of the publication: