The ground sits scorched in sun binding rays,
And becomes an ancient scripture,
Feint lines appear
From centuries past
Showing a usage long lost…
Tramlines set no more than metres wide,
Show the tithe lines of strip farming,
A populace field,
Supporting the sustinence
Of a whole village…
Long lost to the city’s thrall.
The field now lies fallow
Unused for centuries…
Save for the salutary grip
Of sheep’s masticating molars.
And I drive by at 40 miles an hour,
And see the signs of a better time,
But cannot stop to look and wander…
For I have a schedule,
And thinking and exploring
Are not on my manifest.