The path to Al Marah horse farm
began at the end of my street.
Into woods of pine, ash, pin oak,
maple and birch I plunged,
across stepping stones
on the broad Booze Creek,
up the tall grassy hill
on the farm’s backside
and into large, welcoming stables.
Although primarily home to
the owner’s elegant Arabian horses,
the stables leased horse stalls to others,
including my friend Mary’s family.
On days Mary invited me for a ride,
my pace and heart quickened.
Driving by the Al Marah farmland today,
I see large colonial houses dotting the landscape.
Well paved suburban avenues,
adorned with bright streetlights,
have replaced the waving grass
and wooden paddocks of my childhood.
Booze Creek’s natural banks
are hemmed in
by residential tidiness.
“Progress” has wiped clean,
the gentle sounds of
whinnying horses on the hill,
summer insects buzzing,
children splashing across a wild creek.
*palimptest — something reused or altered but still bearing visible traces of its earlier form.
Inspiration for this post: Isolation Journal prompt #144