The farmer has a field on the wrong side of the river
Where tending to his holding is tiresome to achieve
To ford the wailing water affords much consternation
And concentration only fuels the fire to sow seed.
And you became my field on the wrong side of the river
When your boundaries buttressed boldly on to mine
For on this side of my span never did I plan to plough you
But harvested you lately, late into my season.