Rushes in the Pasture

The return of rushes to the pasture he could bear, but ragwort in his fields was a shame past endurance. The son did not care. It was not a living farm to him, but merely property, to be maintained only to be kept saleable. He had his eye on a flat in the city; he wanted money in his pocket to spend. His father raged. He threw chairs, he smashed plates. The son only smiled a tight, hopeful smile, and had a few words added to the advertisement. This historic farmhouse, it now read, comes complete with its own ghost.