Pointlessly, endlessly, turning
Pumping the dry well
To water cattle never born
The windmill stands among the beeches.
Iron trunked tree planted watered
By the sweat of a man long since
Daunted, defeated, dead,
Stands among the beeches;
That sprang unbidden, unwanted
To claimed the empty, forsaken field.
For seventy five years the tyrant plow
Systematically impoverished man and land.
Now only the windmill and a broken fence
Reveal the farm among the beeches.
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we used to pass this field on our way home after a week in the city. it caught my eye it spoke to me about an age that was passing --- i suppose that, now, twenty eight years later, that field is part of some subdivision now -- so much of our farmland is ---