The Farmer

the field lays bare against the sky,
vermillion, scarlet and maroon,
waiting to turn by a whitewashed moon,

showing pinkish on the sandy tops
of furrows, moist hungry earth waits
upturned for the coming seeds,

the farmer wipes a sweaty brow,
breathes in deeply his plough's work,
spring encompassed in dark glory

of freshly cut furrows, bed soaked
smells of newly ploughed earth calling
for fresh things to push up to the air,

seeded with thoughtful labour to kiss
the sunset rim of a red sea horizon,
his hands settle into satisfaction

working in the warm soil where
they were always destined to be,
the farmer, well toiled will reap

what he'll sow so deeply, working
fingers giving life to fertile earth,
feet soaking the soil and sweat,

a farmer of a virile land,
growing a lasting history.

From the collection: "The Story of Living Things" >>

Read more of my poems >>