White-clad cottages, stand like dominoes
Each one integral, each one unique
The land they stand on archaic, antique
Their owners tend to the cattle who low,
In the communal fields shared down below
The seeds of grass, stolen by a crow’s beak
Returning to a nest over a creek,
Does little to the fields. The grass will grow.
Long may the cattle continue to graze,
In the fields tended by man may they remain.
There comes a time when we must change our ways,
Or admit that we find ourselves in pain.
The old ways were the best ways. My high praise,
For lost tradition, is never the same.