By Val Little Wolf
High on a hill down a lonely bit of road sits and old brick house, Seeking refuge wandering down a road of dirt and stone,
I happened as if on an adventure finding an old familiar friend. The turn off the road of Valley Burg heading toward Stony Man, A small hamlet wasted from time it stands.
Upon Walnut Hill Road a mere rock throw upon this road the turn lies, A home once own by a family name of Prince.
The lane whines gently like a melody of Chopin’s not like a cadence from a long forgotten war. The road starts toward the brick home that calls me from a time in another re-incarnation. I know this place, I feel it serge through me like a forgotten call. My hand rests, gently upon the wall of the little cemetery.
The most predominate stone close to the earth rises the intensity of power held earthbound the grand old lady’s protection for her home still guards this land. Back in Georgia my little Geo we ride the 70 feet toward the house fierce and Private, She shouts, but not “Go Away”,
I feel welcome Home; I know this house from the ground I stand upon; To the stairs curiously pulls me up the steps as mystery plays within my senses. The death that occurred here spirit holds this house.
Touching a window pain, “Bam it was as if I was forced back from the pain of the window.” A Jab had tingled it’s way through my finger tips. Upon the wall many pictures hung. I haven’t these three years traveled by this grand ole Virginia home. Delight of her holds me captive, This Grand ole lady has known much. Over two hundred years she has stood, proud, faithful waiting her fallen dead. Of all the homes near Luray, VA; it held me spell bound it is she who has captivated my soul and spirited me away. This house, peacefully bound to the future held by the past. It is here that I long to sit upon her porch. To be one in spirit with the one that still remains here.
“Walnut Hill”3/24/2005 7:22:50 PM