On The Farm With My Ancestors Poem by Sheena Blackhall

I notice a motion,
The flick of a plough horse’s ears
In the hazy half-light of the stables

The stalls smell of cat piss and dung
The air is a soup of flies

I notice my great-great grandfather
Striding over the yard
Rubbing a particle of grit
From the edge of his weary eye

All day he has toiled in the fields
A slave to labour and duty

‘What’s your business here? ’
He asks suspiciously

He stands like a stern verb
His bent old back, a question mark
Not wishing to perplex him any further
I melt back into a world he would abhor

Part of me regrets my urban life
Turns back, like Ruth, wishing to help the gleaners

It’s a poor creature who spurns
The place of his origins