master of the earth

For Al.

Master of the earth

The Devil mocks me sneering,
"'Master of the Earth' he calls,
why you are but a humble ploughman,
boring, predictable, very slow, mature and sure
as you travel four corners of your pathetic world,
foreshore ready, beam straight, arms hard strong,
with handles worn smooth beneath your weathered hands,
in all of this I readily agree,
yet you are as little as nothing to me."

But that is true and good
as I know he does not comprehend
that it is the keepers right
with the storms of life,
day after day
night following night,
winter, summer,
wind and rain
to be the ploughman.

Devestation visited with my daughter's rape
at some rough mans awful hands,
when the devil filled her soul,
forcing down into some deep dark well,
crushing her spirit,
her self esteem,
making her dirty,
hurt,
desperate and alone.

But that was not what it should be
and I ploughed a steady furrow,
as he tried to thrust her down,
praying painful winds would be beat
if I bent my back,
continued ever on, when she needed me
to nurture and sooth the tempest,
because I am the sower
who raised good seeds,
because I love and care
and tend these fragile shoots.

Beam straight, foreshore grooved,
curving furlongs, to hold her tight and safe
when she wept with hurt
reliving that awful, painful thing,
clawing through the recesses of her mind
and screamed and cried and cried and cried again
in that long dark night of days and months.

Skim plough, light harrow or scratch blade,
it matters not what tools I use to fight
when Devil's pain and deep pit hiurt threaten mine,
as I subdue the dark gypsy of my soul, soldier on,
because they see me as strong,
rely on me
even if I alone
cringe with the lie.

Iron edge, cast share now burrow deep
and cleanse the bloody wound
as my little girl wanders in her mind
slowly straightening through rougest winds
sheltering from the lightening crash,
fighting weathers storms and thunders madness crack.
Six inches I burrow down to the northern lowland clayey four,
a deeper twelve the softer southern nine,
but Devil begone from here.
Know if you come, I will be in your path
to fight with love, strong and true
giving back a little of what she always gives to me
making the aging ploughman straighten his back
throw back a greying head,
clench oak hard fists
and growl terrible fury to the skies.

Long shadow, I trudge from break of day to twilight of the eve
but don't threaten mine black and awful shade
or I will grind you to some fine and powdered dust
under this rich earth and honest plough,
because I am the little man
who broke the pan,
sowed seeds,
nurtured growth,
watched it thrive
and why, now,
I refuse you entry here.

So attack mine and you will meet my wrought guard
to fall beneath my sharpened edged blade
as I protect all of me and mine.
Steel, iron, coal and furnace bright
cauterising force forged from fire,
wielded, carving deep dark to light,
smithy strong, tempered straight and true
and AH, I beging to feel your fear,
see the anger in your eyes
as you finally recognise,
you have no power here
- so go Devil, Go!

I feel the confusion in your mind
as you wonder how this can be,
I hear your scream of rage
and yes you are quite correct,
it is a lonely path you made me trudge,
but, comprehend there really was no choice
and that I do not begrudge,
because I am the lowly ploughman,

you see,

I really am

The Master of the Earth.