The Old Country Store

The store sat back, away from the road,
right at the spot of the wide river's bend.
Always dusty, always musty,
but one always felt welcome within.

Such a big place in the eyes of a small child,
the smell of hard candies, cookies, and wood.
Floor often creaked, as you walked around,
merchandise piled high, rows and rows of canned goods.

Some folks liked to sit and talk,
sharing with each other, luscious bits of small town news.
You wanted to linger, taking everything in,
a man sitting out front, harmonica in hand,
belting out rhythm and blues.

The merchant, with a head of white,
had such a friendly grin.
He bent over the counter slightly, as we would leave,
and beckon us back again.

© 1999 Sandra Lewis Pringle

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All poems and verses Copyright ©1999 - 2007 Sandra Lewis Pringle. All rights reserved.
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