The Old Farm
Stony faced from a hard worn past,
Rickety gate on a broken hinge,
Work thru dusk ‘till the lights fade last,
There’s bread and milk on the poverty fringe.
Cracked and craggy, leaning, broken,
Drafty, weathered smallhold farm,
There’s no reaper sat down smoking,
Hiding away in the hay bale barn.
Take it or leave it – cast your lot,
Product of thrift, a labor of love,
Herding, baling, milking for what?
It’s cruel to be kind - too late to be tough.
©Philip Holden

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