A weak winter sun, anaemic and wan,
devoid of all warmth, listlessly shone
on fields fresh frosted with nighttime’s hoar,
masking all traces of animal’s spore.
The crunch of farmer’s boot on ground
and the caw of the crow the only sound.
Misted breath in knife sharp light,
forms miniature clouds to watery sight.
As the mercury plunges swiftly South
and crystals form on moustachioed mouth,
the son of the sod does his daily round,
hauling fodder over stone cold ground.
Tending his charges, fair weather or foul,
in summers drought or winters howl.
‘til all is safely gathered and stored,
a job well done his just reward.
"I'm just popping out for the papers",
he always used to say,
"I won't be too long, so try to be strong",
he'd laugh, "whilst I am away".
Part of the ritual, the daily round
of retirements humdrum existence,
but comforting in its familiarity,
and enfolding in its consistence.
An aneurism they called it,
like a blockage inside a drain,
exacerbated by his running
to try to escape from the rain.
Some mornings now, I have to admit,
I get an attack of the vapours,
when I look at his chair, but then I think,
he's just popped out for the papers.
Before we go to bed we vegetate
No need for teacher but a compost heap.
And as we vegetate, we drift to sleep
While in our dreams our little mind debates
But mostly we’re unknowing in this dark
Where God himself may manifest at will.
His dazzling darkness makes our souls be still
And wait for strikes by living ,glowing spark.
But in the morning ,we come back to strife
Take up our work and suffer every stroke.
From sapling to the oldest,strongest oak
Each must choose again its proper life
Every look we cast at others strikes
Reflects and shows us what we have become
And when there is no movement, we are done
Our mind and heart have chosen what they like.
So in our end we vegetate again
And no more rise to labour in the day
We fertilise the fields passed on our way
We show the end of woman and of man.
A daily round becomes our life and death.
We live because we’re breathed by sacredness.
Before we go to bed we vegetate
No need for teacher but a compost heap.
And as we vegetate, we drift to sleep
While in our dreams our little mind debates
But mostly we’re unknowing in this dark
Where God himself may manifest at will.
His dazzling darkness makes our souls be still
And wait for strikes by living ,glowing spark.
But in the morning ,we come back to strife
Take up our work and suffer every stroke.
From sapling to the oldest,strongest oak
Each must choose again its proper life
Every look we cast at others strikes
Reflects and shows us what we have become
And when there is no movement, we are done
Our mind and heart have chosen what they like.
So in our end we vegetate again
And no more rise to labour in the day
We fertilise the fields passed on our way
We show the end of woman and of man.
A daily round becomes our life and death.
We live because we’re breathed by sacredness
The quivering Rabbit lies upon the cold frozen ground
Ground of thorn thickets cockleburs and tall sun dried sage brown
The hidden openings rocky places it had played its escape
The hounds of death had chased it from these it thought safe
It had prior since run for its life from such numerous hounds
Each experience taught it that life won- is a daily round
But the older and wiser the rabbit became
The fatter and slower- thus the hounds did gain
Tattered flesh its hairs viewed plucked with red stains abound
The dogs of death have ceased their chasing madding sound
For this now dying rabbit- its death now does face
The quivering rabbit does pay for its mistakes
Breath the struggle- breath the riddled body desires
Breath of the last- till there is breath no more
The quivering rabbit stills upon the cold frozen ground
By Mark A. Goodson
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