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.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2019
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