Farrow

O flaking plough thy work be done thy use forgotten by maker and son.Thy last coat of paint from red to rust rejoin the earth you drilled and cut.

 The oxidized shadow of the height you proudly was now ingrained upon the masons stone upon you now rest, and thy plowman's grips held by the nettle bind drags thee deeper to thy birthplace beneath.

I shall not forget thy toil nor the shire horse sweat, nor the leather Rein cracking git/on, I will remember thee dear and hope to live my life like you, driving my  farrow straight and true.

                                                                      COPYRIGHT 2010