Broad lies the field that yeilds its all,
Between reservoir and stone wall.
Clay is the toil turned soil again,
Carved with care and joy and pain.
Dark is the sky clad high in cloud,
Deep crafted by man, plain and proud.
Etched the land, this hand harvested,
Ever worked, season by and tested.
Forty the acre was created and farmed.
For over 3 hundred years been charmed.