A reworking of an old poem.
The ploughman's mother.
I've been ploughing this furrow for too long
each time I look up from my toil
the end of the field still not in sight
save an oak tree on the horizon
when I set out that tree and I were mere saplings.
The seagulls that dog my wake have given up on fat worms being exposed now eye my soft parts greedily. they swoop in ever closer.
Time to release the old horse from her traces
(smack her on the rump and watch her trot back to her pasture)
leave the plough mid furrow
mid field already rusting
it will soon enough blend in visually and
then soon enough
decompose and vanish.
If I walk quickly I will make it to that tree under which sits an old woman who has many stories to tell me.
I have forgotten what I was meant to sow in this field any-way.
Hot chestnuts maybe.