The living flesh of the field

fell away from the blade,

the landscape suddenly

both fragile and solid.

My father walked the opening scars

where green cracked into slabs

of fertile brown.

The grey dragged line

after patient line

through the earth.

I played in the tripping ridges.

Wondered at his strength and


The horse a living power,

hard to gauge, knowing itself.

Yet he spoke and clicked the reins

and Sheahans grey moved

and stood at his word.

When we rode home

on a back so broad

it seemed another place,

the stiff grey hair

stuck to my clothes

like memories.


One Response to Ploughing

  1. Renia says:

    I like this very much, I´m a big fan of childhood memories.

    Where is your first post for 2009? (though I have to catch up on last year first).

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