The vermin-perforated mansions
along Old Post Road overlook
our crooked white wood barns,
where we've held close our hay rolls,
sheaves, pigs and pea hens.
We've kept up the ten inch plank sheds
as swallow shelters, shadow boxes
for the aching cows who pluck
down from the slate stuck hills,
and the two or three boarded horses
where there were virtually thousands
penned by fence rails, dilapidated now
around these actual driven withers.