It has taken these eight years past
To build up the bank of memories
Such that our new construction
Might weather the old storms
Each morning
The floorboards are brushed
Dust swept from the corners
Fluff moved from low shadows
Each evening
Sat beside the warm fire
Books are opened onto
Pages of modernist thought
The homestead sings out
With soft prayers, and meditations
The table is set, and served
With traditional country fayre
These are the days of miracles, and wonders
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