Farmyard 1964

Weathered wood never painted
almost pastel grey
this house of four generations
stands upon a hill.
Oaks and elms surround,
and an orchard as old,
it seems, as Johnny Appleseed himself.

Barnyard full of barnyard smells.

The acrid waft of guano,
chickens free range in the daytime,
chasing insects round.
The starchy fragrance of drying corncobs
in the wood-framed fodder bin.
Of oils and metal sitting in the stables;
horses gone, but leather worked for decades
keeps its horsy smell.
Of ploughed fields and new sown seed,
the soil still clodding from recent rains.
The swampy smell of pond scum
pooled at the outflow of the watering trough,
ancient goldfish swimming,
move lazily as the cattle drink.

Red-sided barn, white trimmed
after war when paint available again.
- Next house down the road painted red and white
to match the scene, like pictures of rural Sweden
in National Geographic -
Old oak timber beams, deep nut-brown,
dressed in generations of cobwebs.
The smell of hay in upper storey;
old , dry, dusty at the back,
fresher, sweeter near the double-doors
that empty into space and overlook the fields,
lifting tackle hanging down
like some warehouse along canal
in old Amsterdam.
And barn-cat kittens crowding bowl of cream
in milking parlour.
Aged smells, six stalls clean,
but odours of milk and dung linger,
naturally.
Only two cattle left
- arthritic hands are slow at milking -
and when cows go, so too the farm.

Fifth generation moved to city.
Sharecropped now,
house set for demolition
when septuagenarian farmer dies.

Intricately carved, road-facing sign proclaims –

“Van Schoyk 1836”




James Gagiikwe © 2008