The Fence

[onepapa]

I watch the ghosts in the evening haze
along the pasture fence.

We built that fence fifty years ago,
my back wet from driving pick and shovel,
placing the posts exactly where Grandfather pointed.

My aching fingers like broken sticks
from stretching barbed wire in perfect lines
on posts flawlessly spaced.

He towered above me.
"Build it well," he said,
"and it will last longer than we will."

A breeze swirls the ghosts and haze away
from the glistening taut wire.

Brownlie, fromcancertocapricorn, ajcohen613, Erthona, mongolfiere and Mercedes,

Thanks to all of you for the thoughtful and constructive comments. I pared down a much longer version of this poem, striving for brevity and clarity and it appears that I went too far and lost it with the ending strophe (not that the ending is the only problem). I like the idea that the older generations have much to teach us, if we will only listen. I also like the idea that we have an obligation to teach the younger generations the lessons we have so painfully learned. Thanks again. Good work shop feedback really helps.

onepapa