The distant orange compassion of her face seemed spent.
It was a cool October and the fields felt wide
as herds huddled and tails slapped the last flies from hides.
The pasture gates swung into dirt on hinges bent
as the backs of feeble men who'd drift in to present
with twin groans two sacks of feed now and then or chide
through teeth and the smoke of pipes the feeble sun which denied
elbows and knees restoring warmth. They could prevent
they were sure, the laming hole burrowers. They'd just need,
they mumbled, to feel again against their chest
the heat of June to set straight the appalling state
of the southern fence. For now, they tramped at bovine speed
the deep ruts formed by single-file herds headed for rest,
or they leaned like hoary fence posts beneath the sun to wait.

Hexameter matches the slower theme I think. I used Milton's end rhymes (mostly) from "When I Consider How My Light Is Spent"

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