A black line snakes over the hill,
Sheltering a thin ribbon of white,
Fractured only when it turns to the sun.
Like a child's colouring book,
It marks an outline to be filled,
With the hues of the farming year.
One man's pride from another time,
You can touch a morning's toil,
And wonder at his practised hand.
But we show no deference to its creators,
Too functional to be revered.
The final insult comes in disrepair,
Where it lies trapped between,
Two parallel lines of measured charge.
Perhaps a fitting epitaph after all.
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