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An old man leaned upon his hoe
And spat a spittle at his toe
Looked back up the finished row
With a look of satsifaction.
Summer was coming to an end
The listless leaves did gently bend
Waiting for the wind to send
A breeze to set them free.
An Autumn smoke was in the air
Full of sadness and despair.
Crows no more flew in a pair
But sat morose and surly.
The old man glanced down at his feet.
A robin gave a cheeky tweet
And cocked its little head so neat
A harbinger of Winter.
The wind upon his furrowed face
Was coming from a colder place
And the planets spinned in eternal race
And no one could say why.
The seasons come, the seasons go
Bringing flowers, sun and snow
And man gets caught up in the flow
And then dies without an answer.
But any man who works with clay
Can understand, it's natures way
And must join in and bravely play
The game that ends in death.
He sees a hearse go by a slap
Takes off his old and well worn cap
While waiting for the cold, cold tap
Of death upon his shoulder.
He can hardly remember his brother's name
And yet his cheeks can burn with shame
As he feels again the stinging cane
In his childhood long ago.
He prays that death comes in the night
To slip away, without fear or fright.
One thing he fears with all his might
And that's to become a burden.
He looks around with tired gaze
No clear horizon, just a haze
Trappe. Aye, trapped in lifes cruel maze
Till Gabriel blows his horn.
The old man gives a tired sigh
No tear runs from dried up eye
Below the earth, above the sky
And me somewhere between.
The old man grasps his well worn hoe
And starts upon another row
Feet a trailing and head hung low
While screaming children play.



Copyright 2009 J P McMenamin