grandmother poem

sun and wind and beat of sea
a little peach in the orchard grew
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
all day to watch the blue wave curl and break
as it
just as my fingers on these keys
up from the meadows rich with corn
truely
the meadow was creeping
two rows of cabbages
that year
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
they may talk of love in a cottage