The Bullock Yard
On slopping hillside of southern sun lies forgotten yard of grand beasts that once roamed the meadows of grass. The rust red tin that covers yellow brick from London stock now hides the whispers of cattle men from a century past when candles of tallow lit the night as calf was born.
A shelter from snows and gales from the north it once stood so proud, now clad in ivy the walls and lime mortar pass through seasons of both sun and ice. Great nettle beds soften the forgotten shell that once held life and passed in every hour by Ashwell folk who remember not this yard of cattle.
You paint such lovely pictures with your words Rob! Erika x
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