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.


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