The Wills' Farm

The Wills' Farm

There was a time on Wills' Farm the cows on the hills,
In meadows late at noon
At salt licks soon.

Wills left.
The farm alone
Became a stone,
Wind-filled though it was;
In rotting places could be seen
What, when life is gone, it does.

And, what, is it fun
To walk on broken metal? Or twist one's foot
On poor Mrs. Wills' kettle?

I take it myself to be better
Among the reeds along their pond.
It is this, though far from
Manicured, I am fond.

copyright JJW 2012