Standing My Ground

They ploughed my field … right up to my door!

The rake marks flowed in

deep meandering grooves and

caught the sun on the south rise,

casting dark shadows;

with bewitching swirls.

I stand, at unease!

A house, of simple strength;

with three windows, looking to the south.

My chimney, intended for warmth offers little comfort.

Standing my ground,

I can see no other,

but dry, bare arcs of earth, aching for life.

As the sun blushes,

my grey frown casts hard, silvery lines,

rigid with naked hope.

They ploughed my field, right up to my door!

The rake marks flowed in deep grooves

and cast nervous shadows.