To the Two Old People Who Lived on a Portion of Our Farm

In a secluded valley, nestled amid rolling hills and bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun, lived a simple couple, their lives entwined with the rhythms of nature. Their home, a modest cottage, stood sentinel near a tranquil dam, its weathered walls whispering tales of a bygone era.

The man, with calloused hands and a weathered face, tended a small flock of sheep that grazed contentedly on the meadows around the dam. His wife, a woman of gentle spirit, managed their modest shop, a quaint little store filled with the sweet aroma of freshly baked bread and the comforting clink of teacups.

Their days were filled with the simple pleasures of rural life. The windpump, their only source of water, laboured tirelessly, its creaking rhythm a familiar soundtrack to their existence. The nearby road, a dusty artery connecting distant villages, brought occasional travellers or farmers to their door, seeking respite or a moment of human connection.

The couple's toilet, a solitary structure perched at a distance, was a testament to the rustic charm of their lifestyle. Yet in these simple conveniences they found contentment, their lives a harmonious blend of tradition and tranquillity.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the valley, the couple would often sit on their porch, watching the stars twinkle above, grateful for the simple life they had chosen: a life rooted in the land and enriched by the enduring beauty of nature.

This is to remember them by. Their house is no longer there; only the borehole, the foundations of their house and the toilet bear testament to their existence.