A Dirt Road Farm

Daffodils in a cracked earthen jug
deprived of sun blaze on a coarse window
ledge above a bunched up apron.

To our mouths gruel thin on the spoon
tastes blander than its own dull colour.

Under the table an arthritic dog
lays stiff as tomorrow's expectations.

Blooming in the dank cellar a garden
of a forgotten woodpile crawls
and slithers - busy in the slow rot.

James Brian Livingstone

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