poem

I wrote this many years ago when  they were building the Northway from Albany up through the town of Warrensburg, where I lived.  This happened to a place with which I was familiar.

Tearing the Homestead Down

The money's in our bank account
The new house bought in town;
My heart as vacant as the silent
House they're tearing down.
The hill on which we picnicked
So many childhood hours
Is a noxious, noisy gravel pit.
Where are the dainty flowers
We gathered for our Mother
In daydream days gone by?
Dead, as is the great oak,
Gnarled roots turned to the sky.
Down there by the road way,
(The stable's gone from sight)
Iron hands of progress
Work to fell the house by night.
Straight over Mother's garden
A million cars will fling
And all that will remember
Is a lost bee, circling.
So they came to give their fair price
For the flattest piece of loam,
But there isn't any fair price
For the spot you've made your home.