The clatter of the horse’s hoofs disrupts the morning air,
And catches all the feeding birds completely unaware.
The gravel crunches ‘neath the wheels, the pavement old and worn.
The wagon creaks and slowly stops on this October morn.
I’ve come this way so many times, the horses have their head,
And so they stop on my command, as usual, left unsaid.
They puff and snort, their steamy breath drifts t’ward the sunless sky.
The one looks back with big brown eye, as if to ask me why.
Yes, why is it so many times I’ve stopped along this road,
In this, my big old wagon, now devoid of any load?
What is it here that draws me, that keeps me coming back?
Is there something quite unique, an aphrodisiac?
It’s stretched out there before me, just like it’s always been,
And when I think about it all, there’s nowhere to begin.
It seems it’s always been there, or at least it has for me,
Results the builders of that wall just never could foresee.
My thoughts swing back to years ago, I think that I was eight.
I’d hide behind that very wall, beside my best friend Nate.
The Redcoats didn’t have a chance, we never missed a shot,
I, a son of Plymouth Rock and he, a Hugenot.
Through the quickly passing years our games had changed a bit.
The wars we fought had diff'rent foes, and I must admit
The Indians were not our friend, our flintlocks belched and roared.
Behind our safe and friendly wall, we fought the savage horde.
Then we switched to World War Two, our wall was now in France.
We fought the war in that one place, not trying to advance.
Our wall secure, where we did hide, and giggle, plan and fight,
Till shadows and the dark’ning sky warned of the coming night.
Today I stop here as a man, and see the wall anew.
And in my very heart of hearts, I know what I must do.
It’s something I don’t understand, my brain cannot define,
Just how this land with its stone wall is destined to be mine.
The smile that lights my face today wells up from deep inside,
A mixture of the joy I feel and of my deep-held pride.
The rocks and stones that make the wall are but a testament
To craftsmen of a bygone past, no mortar or cement.
They’re stacked with tender loving care, how many years ago?
Some have guessed a hundred years, I think we’ll never know.
I guess there’s some who want to know, who cling to time and dates,
But sitting with my horse and team I just anticipate
Just when the vibrant orange and reds that brighten dismal days
Will fill my cabin windows with their warm and rich displays,
And I can hide behind that wall just like I did before,
And see its simple beauty through my open cabin door.
Gold trophy winner
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