The byway, like an arrow, shoots the fallow field,
Hugging the hedgerow, I head for the Hawthorn tree
Climbing the style steps, I stop and stare beyond
An arena of wheat, wafting and waving before me.
From my vantage point, I view a pending dispute,
Seasons seemingly shifting, without fanfare or frill,
The summer sun once offered warmth, welcomed,
Giving way to unsolicited autumnal cold and chill
"Hasten home, young man, hasten home,"
I'll take my leave. I dare not tarry,
"Hasten home, young man, hasten home,"
Before autumn leaves, harass then harry.
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