Downhome Magazine

Cellars of Black Island

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Today I walked on hallowed ground,
Where sacred spirits still abound.
Of hardy folks who tilled the soil
And fed their families from their toil.

Long gone from their island home
Their fields and gardens overgrown.
The only sign from calloused hands
The broken cellar which still stands.

A testament to days long gone
When daily chores began at dawn.
As oars creaked and dipped the sea,
Fish to feed the family.

And just before the frosts of fall
Their harvest from the rocky soil
Filled those cellars...every pound.
Food for the family...all year round.

It bothered not those folks at all
If markets...they should rise or fall,
Or what is in the mainland store.
Their island stock is now secure!

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