Thicket

Such an unenthusiastic landscape,
To its credit went your daily limp.
The harvest was arbitrary –
What did you expect to find?
This tiny country is a thing of the past,
That seed just the parachute of the first world,
Whose dance meant little more than distraction.
Whose layers of years peering out of houses
Were so quick to leave your sight –
No wonder that sickle never touched the ground,
The ground to whose shoulders
You still attribute your seasonal fatigue.