At first their is a little track
At which I rush along
Then comes some wild, untamed grass
To far from the farmers arm
Then comes a fence
Barbed with a deadly glare
The field, freshly plowed
Does sit upon the fences other wing
It’s here we find
The rows of dirt
Nearly as straight as I can draw
With seeds, no doubt
For the season of growth
For the farmer to reap and sow
It’s square to him
But diagonal to me
I see it at these speeds
And after that
What ends the flat
A sprout of lovely hedges
From here we see
The story continues
In likewise fashion and theme
Into the distance
Where the eye can see
To the end and then beyond
But wait! What’s that
When I stretch my eyes
I find there in the distance
A village, of sorts
A few houses at best
But they mark the farmers existence
Perhaps it’s there
That more playful life
Also does exist