|
---
Where is the grain, brimmed full with nature's goodness, golden, ripe and tender?
Where is the milk, that gift of cows luxuriously fed with lush, green grass?
Where are the shanks and loins and rumps all deftly cut upon the butcher's block and hung like fruit from some great fleshy tree?
This Furzeden farm lies hidden from my gaze.
Perhaps, my path not true but mocking me instead as now it revels in my turmoil.
But there, on yonder sign a confirmation of my tour.
This is Furzeden.
So where the barn, the field, the milking house.
Where are the farmers, tall and strong?
Ah, down there within the valley, fair maidens all assembled in their toil.
But, lo!
No crops provide a carpet for their feet.
No cloven hooves beat out a chorus for their ears.
These subjects all appear in dance.
One jumps, one stoops, one skips, one falls.
And yet, no diva's song or maestro's tune doth emanate from this strange, square yard.
What curiosity is this?
Verily, it is volleyball.
|
ME - Front Page
