It is a picturesque town.
Gone back a hundred years or more.
A post-carded vision where the
cobbled walk circles
the park square where maples bend
and huddle round children
that have long gone away.
Twas a colony of like-minded folk in its day.
Now surrounded by farm fields that house
towering armed sentinels
catching the breeze in rotation.
This was our destination
as we strolled onto the grassy green square.
All of the pickers were there,
and a fiddler to boot.
In the gazebo, behind the haystacks,
sat a shadowy suit of leering looks
propped between guitar strings
and black leather cases.
From a distance,
we mistook his fatigue for voyeurism.
Shame on the strangers in town.
That shadow had forgotten more about pickin
and pluckin than we could
ever hope to know.
And when he did finally lay his gnarled
fingers on his ole friend,
that banjo filled our souls
with tunes long forgotten.
In that picturesque town where the maples
bend down to greet such sweet music.
Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.