Elliot Mustoe

The Field

It lies there all year.
Hot and cold,
Wet and Dry,
Green and White.
It’s isolated and lonely,
Or appears trendy and accompanied.
It sits there spectating happiness
Or gloomy darkness.
From an arena of promise,
To one of demise.
But the field will never
Be forgotten.




[TABLE OF CONTENTS, LHS CLASS OF 2013 EDITION]

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