The charming couple proud of their trees
have gone and the land is for sale. The caravan
is still there, still without the wheels someone stole.
Did they both just get too old?
The beehives by the stream are silent.
Gates are red with rust.
The ground around the trough is undisturbed.
Grass grows in ruts.
Dovetailing granite walls delimit spaces
where grazing beasts once swished tails at flies.
Strong men built them, clear purpose
helping to hone the stone.
So much beauty shaped by endeavour.
Who now will take the billhook to the bramble and the bindweed?
Whose skittish cattle will turn, break the sod and set the seed
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Glen Hubbard would
be pleased to hear them.