This is a poem by John Grey.
A white farmhouse well back from the road:
a large grey dog dozes on a long wooden veranda
at the feet of a young boy plucking on a dulcimer;
the leathery face of his mother appears briefly
in the kitchen window;
and, off in the distance, his father and tractor
dig furrows in the land.
A tradition cast in blood and set in soil:
canine ever too ready to lie languid in the sun,
a child more enamored of life’s oddities
than its hardscrabble,
a woman with tired eyes,
dully cooking from an ancient recipe,
a man of the land, heir to what will ultimately outlive him.
It could be anywhere.
But it can’t be anything else.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Tau, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Examined Life Journal and Midwest Quarterly.
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