A large vintage Chevy group will be visiting Afton Station late in the day tomorrow, so it's doubtful that I'll be blogging until Wednesday. Meanwhile, here's a little poem I wrote yesterday while watching the building demolition. It needs a lot of work, but then so does Afton.
Sunday Morning Backhoe Dirge
It's much too glorious a morning
For a dirge.
A hymn to timeless beauty
Seems more appropriate.
And yet it is a dirge I hear,
The horrid rumble of rocks
Falling and scraping against pavement
Pushed by John Deere's yellow monster
Creating a cacaphony
Above which melodious strains
Are neither heard nor felt.
Has it's time, I guess,
When carefully piled stone
Once lovingly stacked by caring masons
A hundred years ago
Is pummeled and disgraced and devoured
By the great yellow machine.
On an otherwise silent Sunday morning
In the most silent town on earth
(Save for whistles of occasional trains)
Sunday silence is violated
By a building's death.