Trouble

[Brownlie]

The path behind our childhood home
ran fast to trouble unbeknown. -- Not sure about unbeknown.
A farmers gate, a barn of hay,
lay in-wait that summers day. -- I think Shakespeare ruined summers day, or summer's day, or whatever.


With tales and waves to Mum and Dad,
we set our feet where we should not had.
Mum thinks we’re going to the park.
We promised we’d be back by dark.

The gate was rust, old and iron,
but scale it not for want of tryin’.
Push and pull and shake and crack,
the gate lay down, now at our back.

A harvest moon one week prior,
had filled the barn to top, no higher.
We scampered bail and slid and fell.
Jumping, tripping, all was well.

Laughed and rolled from fort to stack.
Time it fell right off the track.
Sunlight dimmed and now was gone,
back home to rush, come on, come on.

Leaving fast we flashed a match,
to find our way out from the patch.
A stumble over rake and pitch,
took our fire to the ditch.

Oil from tractors mixed with straw.
A fuse to light, our barn - no more!
A blaze to see for miles around,
and then us running from the ground.

I'm not really knowledgeable on Faulkner, but this poem reminded me of that story Barn Burning. Maybe this type of rhyme scheme is valued by some, but it seems distracting. I'm no Laureate ok, there are children who write better than me (http://www.rattle.com/poetry/children/y2014/). However, I'm hesitant to endorse this sort of rhyming.