Portrait of a Winter Farm
Steel-gray clouds have filled the sky
To linger, on a cheerless day
Laying ice upon a weary world
Of rolling hills, and pastures deep
Small herds seek shelter among the trees
And flocks of geese form arrows high
To flee the wail of windmill cries
North winter winds so wet with sleet
Have buried fields, once primed for wheat
With the weight of burdens never done
A lone man works without a sun
Entrenched in white beneath his feet
Wearing overalls, boots deep in soil
And fleece upon his heart of toil
A pitchfork heaped with mounds of hay
That blanket fields of frigid gray
There's a horse drawn wagon, sunk in mud
Waiting till the master is done
He labours on, as the evening falls
It is too cold to wipe his dampened brow
His woolen hat... it glistens now
With cheeks of red, he steels his breath
Like his forefathers did, until their deaths
Humble pride, long hours to bear
Another day that he will wear
Repeating task of many years
So weary on his shoulders lay
A legacy that's long to stay
The timeless cloak of winter's day
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