Ploughing his way through life
Granddad was a slave to the labour of the day
Each day he’d strive to be that much better.
As he yoked both grey mares
Never allowing his head to drop
Pride in everything you do, he’d preach.
Life’s comforts for him
Watching blackened fields sprout new life.
His steady hand made the straightest furrows
He’d stand back, cast a lingering glance
You could almost hear him smile.
All he sought was a simple life
Year on year he’d delight on natures yield.
Many a happy year we spent sitting on the headland
Listening as his whistle was carried on the breeze.
Poetry from The Man Shed
20/01/2020
~The Poet’s Poet~
Chris's Blog 