The Field Needs The Plough Poem by Martin Ward

The Field Needs The Plough

Bitter winds once teared
his face of furrowed land.
Honest toil cut and crossed
shovels of leathered hands.

Chill of icy winter hails
upon crazy frozen panes.
Mother Nature's honing nails
scratch glass to call his name.

This poor old man of forty,
whose seasons have flown,
cannot die in peace here
in the workhouse all alone.

His thirty-something love,
has matted silver locks now.
He hears the children calling:
'The Field Needs The Plough'.