Classic Poem

Slowly Nan the widow goes
Up and down the furrowed rows.

Corn-bags chafing her waist, her hips,
As the kernels fall from her finger-tips:

" One for the buzzard —
One for the crow —
One to rot — and —
One to grow! "

Once she had dreamed (but not of late)
Of another life, a kinder fate:


Of quiet streets in foreign towns,
Of dancing tunes, and men, and gowns.

But all her dreams were dreamed before
Tim Slade drew rein outside her door.

" One for the buzzard " — Tim was dead
With a bullet hole through his reckless head.

Tim with his cheating ways and words,
Marked from the first for the wart-necked birds,

Tim who had left her sorrowing days,
The farm, and a pair of sons to raise.

Lon was her first-born: " One for the crow! "
Where had he gone? She'd never know

For there was a price upon his head —
" A chip off the old block, " people said.

Then " One to rot! " Her thoughts go back,
Like hunting-dogs on an easy track,

To the girl she's been before she came
To love Tim Slade and bear his name.

And something as stinging and hot as sand
Slides down her cheek and strikes her hand

And she sees the field through a shimmering blur
For what has marriage meant to her

But a heel of bread in a roofless hut,
Or a crawling course through a mouldy rut?

As if in answer, over the ditch
A child comes riding a willow switch:

Her second born, of whom no one
Could say in truth, " His father's son. "

For his chin is firm, and his mouth is grave,
And the look in his eye is bright and brave.

And she, remembering farm-hand talk:
" You lose three seeds to get one stalk, "

Stands tall and proud and her pale cheeks glow
As she drops a kernel: " One to grow! "

Slowly Nan the widow moves
Up and down the furrowed grooves,

Peace in her heart and a smile on her lips
As the kernels fall from her finger-tips:

" One for the buzzard —
One for the crow —
One to rot — and —
One to grow! "