McLean Farm, Thibeauville, Richmond County, Nova Scotia
The newly mown hay made a fragrant sweet bed.
Where the hobo could rest his weary head.
The wooden barns dotted the dirt road.
Beside each were gardens neatly hoed.
Trains still puffed through the valley floor.
Station master waved from the open door.
He would spend a solitary week or so.
In hay mows no one would ever know.
Before the war as children they had frequented every orchard and barn.
Beyond the valley floor was only the old WW1 veteran yarns.
Since then twelve years had drifted by.
In solitary meditation under an open sky.
Where only subconscious bombs fell from the sky.
Where only owls wake you from where you lie.
This time he travelled as a stranger.
As if his life was in constant danger.
Haunting his childhood spaces.
With a knapsack and shoes without laces.
With a bottle and a wedge of cheese.
Fresh veggies and fruit from apple trees.
At the end of the valley he would jump the train.
Never to physically return again.
But he left a note on the stable door.
To say he had just come home to do his chores.