…They stand at the gate to the high field
Father and Son… Man and Boy.
A lifetime of weathered lines showing great mileage
and hands as tough as leather.
A gentle face full of wonderment and hope,
Unworn by the sun.
They both stare across lands that one has toiled,
All his life… and one never will…
The grass moves, birds are startled, then one by one
Drop to earth, lifeless… the scent picked up by gun dogs.
They never wanted a ‘shoot’ on their land…stubbornness,
Maybe short-sightedness to move with the times. Un-willing.
Drought had also taken it’s toll, cruel times, back breaking
Toiling in blistering heat, while top soil blows away.
The sons of the fathers became ‘ Graduates’ …Judas with a degree.
Payments could not be honoured. Banks have no sympathy,
Like locust they devour the best, sucking the veins dry!
…They stand at the gate to the high field, and watch the new
Owner a ‘city boy’ kill the last bird… The last life has gone!