With fertile soil underlain
by glacial gravel well sustained,
'twas trodden by the cloven hoof
of deer abrowsing on the path.
The builders came and took a look;
disdained the bubbling nearby brook
and picked the high place over low,
while clearing land to till and sow.
A house was built with cellar small,
in time the folks removed a wall
to store the carriage and the tack,
a greater house was needed now
and progress meant no going back.
The drive was longer now indeed
necessitated by the speed
of working horses on the farm,
lest playing children come to harm
and later autos even worse;
more so when driven in reverse.
The generations came and went
to wars and work til life was spent,
and visits made from near and far,
from Persian climes
and Europe 's shores,
tramps and Clergy
knocked on doors.
The children had no need to roam
and met the world while still at home.
Another house was added still
on northern side at owner's will;
a brood of children blended in
with lingering bygone playful din.
A porcelein doll's leg proved it so,
from early ones so long ago
that we are destined not to know
and seldom think about.
And arrowheads were underfoot
from early campers living slow
who tracked the near expired doe.
The grown ones
used the lane for work,
that younger ones did often shirk;
piglets pulled to yonder shack
with zero hope of coming back
and being fed as they grew fat
with purpose preordained.
It finally seemed a way to win
some neatness with a blacktop skin,
but cellar filled with dirt and stone
has made its presence duly known;
contrary to our well made plan
it settles still to vexate man.
The snow that fell
was met with glee
and packed for play
and sled and sleigh,
while early cars did
make their way
with tires chained around.
We only tread on borrowed ground
leaving little to be found,
the driveway is the hub of home,
linking those arrived and gone
with us who lived here right along
and those who someday will.
DLC Dec 2003
copyright ©2003 Donald L. Cady