Grandpa’s Farm


Past days most precious in my mind

are those I spent on Grandpa’s farm.

I know the past can’t be regained,

but in my memory still retained

are visions, dear, of grass and trees

and squirrels and doves and honeybees.


A winding stream wove through the woods

and sundry creatures lived there, too.

With birthright safe, they stayed secure

as each new brood could well endure

the fickle climes, rain, winds and snow

since first the woods began to grow.


But progress is what progress does,

no matter the results it brings.

Smart growth is all that’s worthy now

to which the lesser creatures bow

against their will, their fate foretold,

yet brought to mind to a man grown old.


Grandpa’s gone; God rest his soul,

and Grandpa’s farm’s no longer there.

The woods, its residents as well,

all lost , cry out for me to tell

of greed that stole their chance to thrive.

Not one of them got out alive.


- Bob Patterson