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THE OLD WAY

Dust sends its messages along the lane.
The nettles droop beside, such scraggy heads
As the wagon leaves, in passing, white again.
His shadow goes before a man who treads
His uphill way – Oh! With such cart-horse pain –
On the cracked clay patterned with gaping lines
Till he comes to the forty-acre fierce as a plain
Where, hour on hour, his pitchfork heaves and shines,
Heaves and shines till that sun itself reclines.

      Alasdair Aston