Language of old

A lonely stile

‘neath a wind-swept tree

bent and rugged

leaning windward to thee

Fence has fallen

into disrepair

as barbed wire spins

sheep’s clothing there

Black specks dance

way up in the sky

‘gainst guffawing billows

where raindrops fly

This poor knackered stile

’bout to give up the ghost

creaks and groans

in its language of old

And so I end this tale

with one last brute

full of mud and splatter

and Ginger Wine to boot!