A look back to the good old days on the farm and a slower, closer way of life.
Out behind the red barn where Grandpa used to smoke,
lying in the tall grass; what memories this evokes.
I lie beneath the willows that shimmer in the breeze,
and, remember days together spent in the old house ‘neath the trees.
In winter we would sled the hills, cries frozen in midflight.
We’d skate the pond, and build a fort, make snowballs for a fight.
Come Spring we’d fish, and gather flowers, and till the land for sowing.
We’d dig the soil, and plant the seeds, or take the boat out rowing.
By summertime we’d toss the hay, and picnic on the lawn.
We’d search the sky for well-loved stars, and talk the night ‘till dawn.
In autumn, we would gather fruits of seeds that we had sown, and
Decorate the Church hall for another Harvest Home.
But now the folks are dead and gone, and all those happy times
Are merely ghosts whose shadows move across my tired old mind.
Now folks tell me “you can’t go home,” how true that may well be,
But when I see an old red barn, it brings back home to me.
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