The hill sat silently that winter day,
Pockets of hoof prints mixing with the snow,
A meadow, where in summer, daisies grow.
I remember riding a horse that way,
A split-rail fence, then a pasture below,
Saying goodbye when I would rather stay.
And now the old barn shudders in the cold,
Forgotten to the deadly wind outside,
As if it once wept tears that long have dried.
A childish hope, unrealistic to hold.
I could not save the calf, and so I cried,
I prayed for him, my prayers were manifold,
The scent of blood, a sickening kind of sweet,
From the corner where a wheelbarrow sat,
And something I could not stop staring at,
The sightless skull, a life raised for its meat,
Which had been left last summer, to grow fat,
Abandoned here where hope and sorrow greet.
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