Shovelling Wheat

The shovel, long and worn, leans against the truck side
Hiding in the shades
And there’s two bags still open wide
And others maybe forgotten as the sun fades
Behind the full bags all stacked and tied.
They are done with the wheat today
Sitting in the evening sun
Filled the truck sits to be taken away
Emptied before tomorrow begun
With water sweet, scent of wheat and sweat of the day.
The sun will sleep with me tonight, burning
On my bed and back
And I will lay in closed room heat, yearning
Not to dream of potato sacks of wheat to stack
Or the dry mouth dusty churning
As I shall have Frost’s sleep after apples falling
Just some human sleep
Wouldst moon through night go crawling
But wait, the night sells cheap
And I hear the mother calling.
COPYRIGHT © 2017 GRANT FENTON – ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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