Tuesday, June 3, 2014

the batchelor

he was a bachelor farmer, 
the hearth he sat by in old age
the same he played near as a child
toiling at the same few acres always

alone to his bed every night
and rising to an empty house
his good morning a ticking clock
and a dog barking to be let out

at his funeral in the country churchyard,
joining his mother and father in the soil,
four generations weep: sisters, nephews and nieces,
their children, and their children too

the sorrow of so many a display
that his was no empty life





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