Poetry

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If  you should take away what i have got; and leave me with what i have not,the many roads in
life to trek,an inner meaning at varying points then met,there is no sound when feet are found;up
the hill,down the hill;that's the place where work is still,a village unfamiliarwhere itself seemed
tethered,old buildings are so weathered,in the centuary they were made by various workers who knew the spade,we may imitate the style,yet in this place it traveled time,short stay became a week of day's,the many stops with newer shops,older ones are gone,now some are none,among.
Joe.

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