Field 

I crossed the long field toward wood looking for the great man's house. A

field of indescript tan stalks without grain, nor fruit of any identity

beneath the kind of cloudy sky 

of entire gray bland, replete with refusal to rain. 

The woodlot areached was likewise greyly dimmed where buried 

beneath tall weedy picker bush of non-negotiable 

brambles aside a sticktight defense was seen short dead moss

dominating grey deep small ridge of cement foundation, 

last part left of where his house once stood along with half buried 

chunk of deeprust castiron, seeming a piece of some oldtime

implement unredeemed now rendered unrecognized 

by sedate horrors of time's stalwart, steady passage thru 

and between lands where nothing happens 

new, not even the 

happy loneliness of boys of solitude who crisscross weathered old freshploughed fields 

kicking down 

furrows in search of flinty arrowheads 

finding cornstalk 

chips, narry a stone instead, and the abandoned anthills

of millions of demoralized inhabitants yet undead.