The Old Farm
faced from a hard worn past,
gate on a broken hinge,
dusk ‘till the lights fade last,
bread and milk on the poverty fringe.
and craggy, leaning, broken,
weathered smallhold farm,
no reaper sat down smoking,
away in the hay bale barn.
it or leave it – cast your lot,
of thrift, a labor of love,
baling, milking for what?
cruel to be kind - too late to be tough.
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