Fifty Miles
It's fifty miles to the city
And fifty home again,
Around that pothole on Depot Road
Into the arms of the lane.
Old George has left his hay down.
A day or two since mowing.
Pink shadow of the Grange Hall,
Blind in sun's last glowing.
The cows are gathered to the barn,
Tail switching at the gate,
Udders glossy ripe with milk.
Supper'll have to wait.
Take down the bucket and strainer,
Rite of the ending day.
Bury the sound of city streets,
In the sweet whisper of hay.
Bow your head to the great brown side,
A choir in the gentle refrain:
Fifty...miles... to the...city,
Fifty miles to the lane.
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