Member Poem

In the fields of my father,

row upon row, my fledgling hopes
are neatly hedged; sown in the soil
of silent forebears.
Beside a bourne, in chalk and flint,
I plant my dreams deep
and expect a grave harvest.

The rasping of my father’s shovel
has slowed this season. Some furrows
lie shallow, others run deeper.
Through rustic panes
I watch him bend low, straining
against the pull of years
to pluck joy from the loam.

A moment’s pause to contemplate
the lone peony, a blushing invader
into precise ranks. Grudgingly,
his shovel resumes its dreary dirge,
churning all; a peony for thought.
Discarding my pen, I fall in beside;
a forgotten page, unplowed.

First published on The Houseboat in August, 2015