As Kat drove back, crossing the hill,
Her farm house still
Hidden in the trees, she always thought
A fool’s fear, that it might have caught
Fire, someone could have broken in.
As if things must have been
Too good here. Still, she always found
It locked tight, safe and sound.
We ABers mentioned that, once, as a joke;
No doubt we on Chatterbank spoke
Of the absurdity
To fear some dour vandals' jealousy
Of their good fortune. From the farm
Next door, Kat's neighbours saw no harm
Came to the things she cared for here.
What did Kat have to fear?
Maybe she should think: all
Such things rot, fall
Barns, houses, furniture.
Her family, her animal are stronger now than if they were
Apart; They’ve grown
Together. Everything she owns
Can burn; She and her Hub know what really counts—some such
Idea. We said as much.
Kat watched friends driven to betray;
Felt that love drained away
Some self they need.
She’d said love, like a growth, can feed
On hate she could turn in and disguise;
They warned themselves. That she might despise
Vandals—and this could mean they hate all they loved best
None of them should ever guess.
The farm house still stands, locked, as it stood
Untouched by those not good
Two years after the Police went.
That Kat come back to the event sometimes. The theft
And vandalism of their minds were their own.
Maybe they should have known.
Family and livestock protected most,
In love and warmth the vandal doesn't host.