Man

Turning earth, gathering dust
And men, and men like images,
Distillations of experience,
The words like briars,
In his hand the man twists
His rosary beads, laced around
His thick, brown fingers, the dust
Beneath his nails, turning,
Between the brilliance and the lunacy:
The in-spiral line that rests upon the bough,
Rich with blood and men
And immortalised acts –
The thread of similarity
That he is living and dying
At least. The plough and the ordained dust,
And still, he is just a man.