ramblings and things

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Furrows

Not so many up years ago
This land was under plough
Looking from my window
It's a very different view now.
Lots of little boxes
Many of minimum size
Stretch uniformly out,
In a sight for sore eyes.

If we have to use this land,
And I accept housing is a duty,
Couldn't we try at least to replace
Some beauty with more beauty.
These littles dwellings condemn
Living in a cramped dull place,
Too many of them crammed
For maximum use of space.

The green fields of my youth
Increasingly under concrete
And old villages overwhelmed
By new, nondescript streets.
The farms and small holdings
Which gave them a life,
Ripped and torn apart
By the developer's knife.

No time for the steady work
Of the Shire drawn plough.
No plough boys curry horses
And make straight furrows now.
You can have your new world,
My village lives in my thoughts
And the consolation memory brings
Is a thing that can't be bought.





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Furrows