That farm was well-dead.
A sheep-shit and heather death.
But enough remained to imagine
(While between decrepit walls)
The lives once lived there.
A lone tree did its windbreak bit.
Must have shielded them from the wind.
How did they live
When snowdrifts heaved the walls?
Survive the hissing and whistling wind
As it sped through cracked windows
And under the solid door?
Imagine the farmer’s day.
Up at four to a darkness that silenced the birds.
That silenced the world.
All silent save for the beating heart
And breathing lungs
Of the farmer, now ready for work.
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