When earth gives way to the farmers turn,
all thoughts of sods and graces are lost
to the art of survival, as time drips endlessly
to the relentless beat of the rotation tune.
This land beneath my feet
is scarcely different to that
which generations before
did proffer their time in the hope of food.
And the soil itself that has grown all
within it’s willing and bountiful womb,
is as it was two hundred years ago
and will outlast me and my clan and then some.
I walk these ancient paths
aware of these truths
and of her watching me so,
willing me on, holding my direction of travel.