Thirsty work
Out in the mown low field, on a hot
bone-dry day,
He leaned on his long pitchfork under
the lime tree;
The sun scrawled leafy-lights graffiti on
his trunk;
His bared head was pale, wet like a washed
potato;
He drank well water from a small lidded
tin can;
He mopped eye-stinging sweat from the brū of his brow;
His gulps told us that turning hay is
thirsty work.
No comments:
Post a Comment