The Hill Farmer

He tills within the buzzard's flight this cruel land he calls his home, ewe and wether, milk and bucket, broken spirit, ne'er to roam. He's stuck for good, the sacraments will guide him, right and wrong, gone his hopes, and his compassion, save for the lapwing's mournful song. Courted by the country lasses, love can't penetrate this soul, pain and grief his only parents, loneliness his only goal. Mother, father, gone to dust now, confidants who'd calm his fears, struggling with a heavy heart, internalizing all his tears. It's back to digging, discompacting stones and boulders from the earth, working 'til there's no more sunlight, Wales, inaugurator of his birth. Battling the elements he stretches every bone, every muscle, every sinew, 'til exhaustion brings him home. Ne'er a smile adorns his visage, there simply is no time for this, haggard, careworn, slave to nature, racked by weather's wantonness. Two weeks gone, and there they find him, cradled by the wind and rain, cadavered and condemned to fester, never to be harmed again.