Poetry Blogs (hard work)

The Making Of A Worker.

The lorry tips its rubble

On the road outside our house,

the privet hedge engulfed

in a primordial cloud of dust,

it drives away in chugging glee

having spilled its heavy load

and we stand and watch it go

as the carbon mountain settles.

The sergeant-major father

barks his orders at the troops

and our little hands clasp tight

the...

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gnarly fingers
veil his face,
skin thin and crusty
at spots:
splotched parchment
of years in the sun

water
cascades
from his forehead to
his chin
then meets gravity;
raindrops

through his soil-grimed
singlet, jeans and boots;
hours of toil
simmer away
in rivulets
of forgetfulness.




`

Photo by Eric Kaufman, NC

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