My rolling road smooths over the hills
Reveals a distant farm house, hazy gray, huddled in trees
We roll on and the farm folds away into the green
As when the Vikings rode past hunting for spoils, women and food
And when the Revenue came later searching for tax payers

This land is ancient, the holdings forged millennia ago
Only when warfare encompassed the air
Was this farms safety broached
Bombers passed over to pit and hole
To blast and burn
The farm house remained
Snuggled into the land

Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond

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