An Era Long Dead

By Feeré Goroné

The Southern sun beats down on my head.

The dust on the ground rises as I walk.

As I scan the once-familiar landscape,

I feel more than a pang of sadness.

Longing and regret fill my heart,

As I look at the empty shells of the buildings,

Of what once was Lightford, Alabama.

In my mind’s eye, I see what once was.

Wives bustle to and fro, gossiping all the while,

Daughters crowd the general store.

Out in the fields, the men teach the boys

How to hoe, plow, and turn.

Throngs of children fill the streets,

Playing simple games of make-believe.

Back in the present, I find a secret haunt,

Remembering the mystery it once presented.

Now I am grown and old,

But once upon a time,

The furtive coziness and covert grandeur

Of the backyard of the cobbler’s house,

Held unlimited adventure.

Seventy years on, there is a wheeze in my chest.

No longer can I run and play,

Safe in the outside.

Mothers keep their children indoors for fear

Of sickness or kidnapping.

Paranoia.

Leaning by the old spittoon,

A tear makes tracks on my wizened, dust-covered cheek.

A tear for what was lost so long ago,

A tear for what will never be again.