The Old Ploughman Poem by Stug Jordan

He lifts the old cup to his mouth like a cross,
a breakfast table Communion of brown tea and toast.
He goes out, one foot firmly in front of the other.

He wipes his lined face, looking into the sun
with a hand against his eyes to read the clouds.
He kicks his dozy mare into consciousness.

The old plough rattles lazily through stones,
raking through the stubble of the dry field.
He coughs between furrows, unheard in his field.

He stoops back in, to bread and half a boiled egg,
his cup receiving its second baptism of the day.
He sits back slowly, his feet pushing the fireguard.