They ploughed my field … right up to my door!
The rake marks flowed in
deep meandering grooves and
caught the sun on the south rise,
casting dark shadows;
with bewitching swirls.
I stand, at unease!
A house, of simple strength;
with three windows, looking to the south.
My chimney, intended for warmth offers little comfort.
Standing my ground,
I can see no other,
but dry, bare arcs of earth, aching for life.
As the sun blushes,
my grey frown casts hard, silvery lines,
rigid with naked hope.
They ploughed my field, right up to my door!
The rake marks flowed in deep grooves
and cast nervous shadows.