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A Ruined Farm ©

Franz Grimley
Falkirk, Scotland
2004

Concrete shimmers, swallows glide
through broken eaves to sky.
Rusting gates with wire tied,
Sheep too tired to sigh

Crawling ivy, creeping weeds,
entangled brambles grow.
Crinkled dryness, crackled reeds,
a caw of lonely crow.

Still and silent save the flies
that buzz in summer heat
watched by hidden spiderís eyes
anticipating meat.

Doves coo soft in rafters high
on guano spattered beams
seeking shade amid the dry
and dreaming pigeon dreams.

Dry stone walls like dragonís tails,
adorned with tattered wool.
A refuge for the mice and snails,
seeking somewhere cool.

Your building shows its broken bones
Your roof an opened shell
If you were born of mortal man
what story could you tell?

Can you still hear the children cry?
The farmer cutting corn?
And can you still remember why
They left you so forlorn?

When hopes and dreams were young and bold
You sparkled in the mist
But now your slate and wood is old
Your walls and gables list.

And so with quiet dignity
your ancient ruins wait.
For all you see has passed before.
Now all thatís left, is fate.



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