Slow goes the time down South Riana way,
Misty morning turns to graceful day,
The rooster crows his cock-a-doodle-doo,
Pastured cows turn up their heads to moo.
Tiny insects moving in the grass,
Gladed pond reflecting sky like glass.
Day's begun, the sisters start to stir.
They breakfast lightly, only she and her,
Table set for two but never three,
The very finest china for their tea.
No need for conversation as they eat,
Mutual understanding is complete.
Spinsters of the family, never wed,
Betsy and Jemima Rutter-Head,
Watched one brother leave to go to war,
Never to return to homeland shore.
Saw another go to take a bride,
A sister only twenty when she died.
The sun is up, the dishes washed and dry.
The morning beckons to the sisters spry.
Down the road, along the village lanes,
Past the station's platforms and its trains.
Bluest wrens are hopping on the ground,
Swallows swooping, making not a sound.
The sisters speak to everyone they meet,
Bringing smiles to every face they greet.
Betsy and Jemima's daily walk,
Time for every person, time to talk.
Always dressed so smartly, sticks in hand,
Wraps around them warmly, looking grand.
Onward, to the echoes of the park,
The children's shouts, a dog's rough bark,
The sisters' destination, seat of wood,
For observation of the neighbourhood.
Basket set between them, knitting on their laps,
They sit like ancient bookends, in their wraps.
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