Front end It stands with almost steely stare against the sun and cold night air A relic of an industry it speaks of times with mystery Deserted in a quiet spot Relieved of duties? Surely not.. It shares the field with splendid fare The grass; the flowers and country air Im sure it dreams of yesteryear; hauling wool; wheat loads by the ear Alas this is its resting place Though long forgotten; not without trace... © David Jones 2014 Allrightsreserved
Posted on: Sat, 12 Jul 2014 04:43:30 +0000
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