The Land Poem by Mark Boyle

A trickle of sweet
Runs from my brow.
To the beat of the sun
Over head of my plow.
In the pasture I toil
With hands full of seed.
For a crop to be grown
For the mouths in the need.

My muscles are sore
As fire in the wind.
The horse draws the blade
From the crack of the whip.

I dream of my fortune
Away with my wife.
Living in town with
A job and a life.

But then what would happen
To my farm and my name?
A car park or house block
My guts twist with shame.

To hell with the riches
And the new job in town.
The weight of temptation
Twists my face to a frown.

So,
I plow through the dirt,
I cut through the pain.
My farm is in drought,
I prey it will rain.

It’s not just a job
On land or in soil.
I’m a farmer first and last
And proud just to toil.