Denham; isolated, unknown,
Long outlived by usefulness,
Between other lonely places,
No one known calls home.
Sand blown fields stretch out away,
Farmers of corn and beans and sandburs.
Nothing changes, there was never luster,
It is faint and old and gray.
Once a store, a bar, a post office; all gone,
The last train passed through years ago,
Yet still the little church, brick solid but weary,
Bowed now in fatigue and resign.
There is no reason to stop here,
No wealth, no glory, no vista, no fame.
On chance a car drives through,
Anxious to be, somewhere else.
Yet once a young boy ran and danced,
When the world was bright and colors new,
Twirled with joy and adventure,
Dazzled by the lightness.
There was no hurt, there was no doubt,
That all was just a dream away.
There was no end and only good,
Remained to yet be held.
Now an old man walks those black-tared streets,
The dance is but a memory.
He lived it full and kept his word,
Strolling now through gentle shadows.
Here was once an old barn yard,
There a friend slumbered cool in shade,
A garden grew in that scrub and brush,
Steam whistles and smoke would echo through.
He pauses at the brown brick church,
Where Christ first called him clear,
Two thousand years and yet again,
He still comes to Bethlehem.
Long outlived by usefulness,
Between other lonely places,
No one known calls home.
Sand blown fields stretch out away,
Farmers of corn and beans and sandburs.
Nothing changes, there was never luster,
It is faint and old and gray.
Once a store, a bar, a post office; all gone,
The last train passed through years ago,
Yet still the little church, brick solid but weary,
Bowed now in fatigue and resign.
There is no reason to stop here,
No wealth, no glory, no vista, no fame.
On chance a car drives through,
Anxious to be, somewhere else.
Yet once a young boy ran and danced,
When the world was bright and colors new,
Twirled with joy and adventure,
Dazzled by the lightness.
There was no hurt, there was no doubt,
That all was just a dream away.
There was no end and only good,
Remained to yet be held.
Now an old man walks those black-tared streets,
The dance is but a memory.
He lived it full and kept his word,
Strolling now through gentle shadows.
Here was once an old barn yard,
There a friend slumbered cool in shade,
A garden grew in that scrub and brush,
Steam whistles and smoke would echo through.
He pauses at the brown brick church,
Where Christ first called him clear,
Two thousand years and yet again,
He still comes to Bethlehem.
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