weathered boards, splintered faces
a skeleton
coal grey skin, trembling fingers
the horses here only shiver now
our home breathes dusty air
the smell of hay and cool soil
on the road is Dog
my friend
he's getting on in years
the fence that runs our meadow hunches low now
sore backed, ragged
the wind and rain have beaten it down
so long now
and all this swims in the snowglobe in my mind while I think
only seventy generations we've come
seventy lives of seventy years
the trembling farmhouse doesn't seem so old anymore
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