The tops of the fence posts covered in snow,
melting away down an old country road.
The brook in the pasture just wandering by,
while the first morning sun envelops the sky.
Just round the bend and the house is in sight,
under the slow moving smoke taking flight.
Dafodills dressed to match with the boards,
attending the barnyard to hear rooster chords.
Coming to idle as we move into park,
a trip which has ended began in the dark.
Seldom a worry, and hardly a care,
at a place in the country which now isn't there.
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