In Paddocks Corners

There stands an old petrol pump
dulled red in the sun
rust spreading
grass growing long
days growing short,
it stands like a expired sentinel
outside the old clapboard house
with the white picket fence
at the crossroads,
in Paddock

Across the road is a barn
weathered and beaten
not enough to hold the old Dodge truck
that peers out;
bulbous fenders and glass lamps
it’s colour forgotten
it’s purpose ended,
an endless wait on the corner
at the crossroads,
in Paddock.

And if Babe Ruth were to take his stance
and hit a ball,
(perhaps not too hard that is)
he may land it on the expressway
that passes by
with no exits
and no notice
of the crossroads that sit waiting,
in Paddock

And there is a field that was rich
with wheat or rye or barley or corn,
harboured cows or sheep;
that sits fallow, feeding weeds and foreign grass,
it changes from yellow to purple to white
with flowers of the wild competing, winning and losing.
and no one notices the void
at the crossroad that waits,
in Paddock

I am floating over the expressway and ahead I see
the sign and the frozen approach;
and as I draw near I am absorbed by the stillness
disappearing into the quiescence
that is comforting when the finale is close,
so close that one can be rendered part
of the lull that is the crossroad, the essence,
of Paddock.


About Robert M Palmer

Word Crafting, Visual Memories, Audible Bites, Ringleader & Emptor.
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