Our Camp: Barry Sons

Our Camp

It sat on a barge of three inch planks, painted red led, solid as a tank.
 
Papas’ house is what it was; the curved roof house on the big red barge.
 
In it he was quite content, so from November to March was spent.
 
Setting traps, running lines, breaking ice in bitter cold. Skinning
 
Tearing hides off carcasses, popping dry and stretching pelts.

Sometimes hides drying over our beds when he didn’t build a drying shed.
 
Waking to the smell of biscuits, myrtle burning in the stove.
 
Throwing Mud balls at my sisters, running Lollie when it wasn’t
 
cold. Exploring bayous in pirogues. That’s how I spent my winters in
 
 the curved roof-house on the big red barge.

Barry Sons
[email protected]
www.barrysonsart.com