The old farmer sits on the porch Looking down the dim lit lane. Close by, a Citronella torch Burns down, it’s scent all in vain. Mosquitoes flit in the porch light - He slaps at his weathered face, And squints against fast failing sight, As he stares off into space. A golden lab rests by his feet, Wide ears cupped to catch each sound That drifts over the fields of wheat, From where Route Three curves around. Then the two of them grow aware That a bus stopped near the gate. A wave of pleasure they now share, After months they’d had to wait. Worry filled days, watching TV, Hearing names of foreign towns, Learning of their sad history, As the bombs and shells came down. They see the soldier walking now, Duffle bag on his shoulder. He appears to have grown somehow, And he looks so much older. © RickMack (jotoma@bellsouth.net) WRITERS' CORNER: INDEX ~Graphics by Marilyn~