The Old Farmers Story Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

My grandfather stood on this dry, brown land,
With heavy soil and a calloused hand.
He held the plow with a steady grip,
With sweat that ran from his brow to hip.

He had no engine, no gears, no spark,
He worked from dawn until the dark.
But he had a horse with a mane of gold,
To pull the load as the days grew old.

The horse would strain against the trace,
Moving along at a rhythmic pace.
They turned the earth in a straight, clean line,
With patience deep and a spirit fine.

Then came my turn to take the lead,
To plant the rows and sow the seed.
I brought a tractor, loud and bright,
To finish the work in half the light.

It hums with power across the plain,
Through summer sun and autumn rain.
Life is easier, the rows are deep,
But I remember what they had to keep.

They built this farm with simple tools,
By ancient ways and steady rules.
I drive the steel, I ride the seat,
But they was the ones who made
it sweet.