Tot

(Dedicated to my father and his father)
I once dreamt of meadows,
and wheatfields of gold,
and millions of memories,
my grandfather told.
Of ploughs and of furrows,
running true on the land,
and the strong bridled shires,
that were steered by his hand.
"Climb up, my lad",
on the powerful mare,
then away she will trot,
and his son she will bear,
o’er the fields,
and into the sky,
to search for his dreams,
a’fore the clouds pass him by.

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