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Richard Netherland Cook


The Old Schoolhouse


There it stands, it's lonely form,
Beside the red dirt road,
Where grows the wild berry thorn,
From seed some farmer sowed.

The old school bell of long ago,
Does not echo in the hall,
No more desk lined in a row,
No one heeds the master's call.

How quiet is the schoolyard now,
Where children once laughed and played,
Fallen victim to the farmers plow,
Its' purpose now betrayed.

And around the schoolhouse door,
Where once the children scurried through,
Vines grow fast and reach for more,
Of the schoolhouse I once knew.

The wooden floor, how sad it looks,
The window panes are shattered,
The pages of an old school book,
Around the room are scattered.

The girl's and boy's, where are they now?
Those scholars and the wanna-be's,
Some would stay, some lost their way,
Others scattered like the seven seas.

My heart goes back to another day,
Of the schoolhouse I once knew,
And memories stay with us old and gray,
Of a time when young life was new.


By
Richard Netherland Cook

Submitted: Tuesday, April 09, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, October 09, 2013

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