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.