Gesture

...a sonnet for R.S. Thomas A shaft of straw lodged loosely 'twixt his teeth, a shifty glance from here to everywhere, he toils the livelong day 'tween farm and heath, a sullen youth with wild and shaggy hair. The elements have pulverized his face, a body lean and hungry from the plow, in silence, with a slow and steady pace, he struggles hard with sweat upon his brow. Untutored still, yet he can read the sky, the circle of a buzzard high and free, more welcome to his sharp and seasoned eye than any book or harsh calligraphy. Today I had him pause to shake my hand, a gesture he and I both understand.