I learned a lot that afternoon...
me, his beloved grandson...
as he drew me close – squeezed
my hand. Insisted I listen hard,
for he’d secrets to tell...should
he breathe his last...this ‘man
of the land’. And yet, in truth,
so much I already knew, way
before that day came, albeit,
too soon.
His was always my favourite
kind of country...that forehead –
furrowed like those corduroy
fields he farmed, kept ever lush
by good, honest sweat; his hands
told me, more than eloquently,
what a hoe could do; that a trowel
can plant a garden in the soul,
as well as the soil...
Those weathered cheeks,
with their troughs and peaks
eroded by the wind, and eyes
that burned like beacons
in the night, having wept,
both in sorrow, seeing pests
or drought devour a year’s crop...
and with joy the next, at a bumper
yield, in full knowledge, God
bestows gifts on those who sow
with tender touch, rather than
a rough one.
Possessions – all he owned,
could be so easily passed on...
a carthorse, a ploughshare,
and a scythe, but it had to be
in the blood to sense the way
the wind would blow tomorrow,
and when chairs around a table
start to squeak, it is of rain
they speak.
Comments
Kahdai | January 18, 2012 - 19:17
I know that saying, and probably all the others from my own plant-grown grampa! :) Really like this one K
Silver Spun Sand | January 18, 2012 - 19:26
Hi there, Kahdai. Great to hear from you. Pleased you enjoyed;-)
Tina x
Highhat | January 18, 2012 - 19:51
I enjoyed reading this Tina- beautiful images
;)Pia
blighters rock | January 18, 2012 - 23:14
Simple, enriching, real.
It's not easy to grow in this world, but it's increasingly a positive move in the right direction when I read your words.
Thanks
Yutka | January 19, 2012 - 00:52
There can be a magical connection between a grandfather and a grandson. There are lessons to be learntwhen there is the will to listen. Your poem expressed that beautifully. Sowing, growing and harvesting, isn't this what is essential for life? Tomorrow I will see my new grandson baby for the first time and will remember your poem. I also liked it's ending: the squeaking table....
Silver Spun Sand | January 19, 2012 - 09:11
Thank you very much, Pia. More than appreciated.
Tina;-)
Silver Spun Sand | January 19, 2012 - 09:12
...And I when I read yours, Richard. Thank you for them;-)
Tina
Silver Spun Sand | January 19, 2012 - 09:13
Yutka, so good to hear from you and I hope you and yours are well, including that new grandson of yours.
Thank you so much for taking time out to read this, and I hope you have a lovely day;-)
Tina
skinner_jennifer | January 19, 2012 - 10:58
Wonderful poem Tina,
I love that third stanza, especially the bit about:-
having wept,
both in sorrow, seeing pests
or draught devour a year's crop...
and with joy the next, at a bumper
yield, in full knowledge, God
bestows gifts on those who sow
with tender touch, rather than
a rough one.
I cannot believe how many times, I've been through
this, but we still have to keep trying, the next
year.
This poem has such a natural, back to the land
feel to it and I know you were talking about a
grandson, but I could relate to this one, with my
granddad, going to his allotment and how he would
show me what to do, yes we can learn a lot from our
grandparents, as you so poetically write here.
beautiful read and thankyou for sharing.
Jenny.
Silver Spun Sand | January 19, 2012 - 11:14
Jenny - many thanks for your wonderful comment, and thank you for sharing your memories about your granddad;-)
Pleased you enjoyed so much.
Tina
threeleafshamrock | January 20, 2012 - 10:55
'...furrowed like those corduroy
fields he farmed,...' LOVE it!
Another pure gem; wonderful read Tina. Congrats on the cherry; it was a given!
Chris xxx
Silver Spun Sand | January 20, 2012 - 11:28
Many thanks, Chris. Pleased you liked;-)
Tina xxx
Cavalcaderl | January 20, 2012 - 12:04
new Silver-Spin-Sand
tina, every word you mentioned.
So true! Excellent all of it.'Seed's that are sown must grow. And allottemnts Grandads do.
'Furrowed corduroy fields he farmed!
All stanzas excellently written.
Just burn't toast I was out room! phew!
Good job can't smell. Timed myself wrongish congrats: on the cherries! back later.
julie xx
Silver Spun Sand | January 20, 2012 - 12:22
Hi Julie...hope you managed to salvage the toast, and that it didn't set the fire detector off;-)
Many thanks for reading this one. Pleased you enjoyed.
Tina;-)xxx
Mark Heathcote | January 20, 2012 - 21:06
Some lovely lines here these two stood out for me.
furrowed like those corduroy
fields he farmed, kept ever lush
A touch of Frost I thought :)
Silver Spun Sand | January 20, 2012 - 21:59
I think you may very well be right there, Mark;-)
Many thanks.
Tina