The march of time takes no prisoners. Its course is direct, unswerving. It waits for no one and no one can deter its path and goal. All things must adjust to its course.
Back from the road at the foot of the hill,
up from the gully stream that trickles still,
between road and grass that has grown so dense,
all you see now is the broken down fence.
For years it has guarded the hills and beyond
where cattle and horses have grazed near the pond
that formed in the draw providing them drink
though all that’s been guarded…. is now on the brink
of being exposed and run over by them
critters and people and the prairie’s blue stem
grasses that persisted and have flourished so tall
covering the fence where it continues to fall.
The keeper of the fence has probably grown old
and, if that be the case, it’s a story foretold
‘cause neglect of what’s old is a pronouncement of doom
Thus this fence, against nature, is a story of gloom.
So the forces of nature like wind and the drought
will continue their damage with all of their clout.
The posts will stand tall where they can, in defense,
but in time, it is nature that will make the most sense.
She lies on her side, her wire strewn wide.
It waves in the wind; there’s nothing to hide.
The fence had a life and for a very long spell;
now down on the ground, it’s a story to tell.