Plough

This is a slight re-working of a poem I wrote in 2006 about my dad, it was beautifully read at his funeral.

The fields you farmed
are never too far away,
you were grown there.

And the work, oh the work!
Nothing fit for a young man these days,
with early mornings and next-day dawning’s.

Yet so full life was,
semi-skimmed not an option and fry-ups
galvanised the rusting lean machines.

Your body naturally blasted,
fit to bring the sunrise with clumsy clinks
not to mention the pints on Friday night.

That six-pack you claim to once have
boasted, is now duplicated in your sons who are
so different to you, yet the same deep down.

Simple pleasures you have taught,
as I sat and played on your two-wheeled pride and joy, hours disappeared.
Suffice to say that Hailwood would be proud.

Just like lightening with thunder,
you said no to so little, accompanied by
an expected grumble at some point.

Scrubbing through the
sunlight-starved foundry years, a
hard day’s graft was so hard to wash off.

How bitterness settled on your wrist,
with a cheap gold watch made from 25 years
talking shop, another 25 just unthinkable.

Taking bad never suited you
and the lies you thought only scared you,
but we know how lucky we’ve been.

The seeded fields you now plough,
have flattened, slowed and are remote controlled,
just as you like it.

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