A Scraping of Shovels

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Old, weary, sad
Wracked with pain and sorrow
He wrapped the night around him like a cloak

Long had he waited for this eventide
And he had earned it, giving all to family and work.
The wind came up and carried in the sea mist off the fjords

He pressed his cheek against it
The briny smells awakening memories of years at sail 
Long days and nights atop the mast

Swaying the crow's nest like the hands of a clock
Ticking away his life in maritime duties ... and damp bones.
Lubbing land now, and ready for his last voyage

Deep in the sea of soil, to rest.
The winds slowly died, mists turning to fog ...
He was ready, and could see the reaper atop yonder hill, coming

He sat down upon the dank ground to wait
The night now still as death ...
Save for the scraping ... of shovels.

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Craig Cornish

Date: 3/17/2019 2:33:00 PM

I'm amazed this write would not earn placement in ANY contest--well, you've earned it in my heart! - special writing here Greg.

Juliet Ligon

Date: 3/14/2019 7:37:00 PM

Eerie. I like where you took this topic!

Craig Cornish

Date: 3/14/2019 8:20:00 AM

Greg, you have a rare talent to turn muses into thoughts, thoughts into creative prose and creative prose into poetic prose - though they are siblings after all. Poe, the "Father of the short story" once said that novels are a waste of words when a short story can more succinctly and effectively present the same thoughts. Then why can't a poem do the same for a short story - not sure, but this write is an argument in its favor.