fledgling hopes are neatly hedged,
sown in the soil of silent forebears.
Beside a bourne, in chalk and flint,
I plant my dreams deep.
The rasping of his shovel has slowed
this season. Some furrows lie shallow,
others run deeper.
Through rustic panes I watch him bend,
straining against the pull of years
to pluck joy from the loam.
A moment’s pause to contemplate
a lone invader into precise ranks,
before his shovel resumes its dirge.
Discarding my pen, I fall in beside–
a forgotten page, unplowed.
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