I awaken
with allergies and chills,
my head swollen
with Banbridge hedgerows.
A breeze chases through the open door
cases and coats in a pile
the exodus from Loft House to Oak.
Later I stroll down to the farmhouse
with Jack and James,
a gentle slope underfoot.
The curve of a gnarled apple trunk
stands centre stage, devoid of fruit.
Leaning over the wooden fence
fallen pippins circle the yard,
rosy ripe, pecked by the birds.
A vegetable patch lies dormant
like a burial mound,
remnants of potato drills
smothered in weeds,
and I think of young hands
that once worked the land,
raised generations of family
not so long ago.
The cock crows from a distant fields.
I look to five light hill
and sigh,
our last day already.
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