Saturday, May 7, 2011

The Farmer



His hands are shovels
– mind of seasons
Toil
bend low
against the hardened rain
and see the dirt
the cattle-branded earth.
A rainbow
springing from a field
rises, and is lost.
The cattle drop their heads
alien, unwanted,
waiting patiently the open gate
the cycle endless
'till sleep comes weighing down.




©Copyright Niall OConnor (previously published in Cork Examiner)
Image borrowed from the Web
Comments invited.

1 comment:

  1. Patrick Kavanagh has written eloquently of the boredom and grandeur of farming. This poem echoes Kavanagh's The Great Hunger with its emphasis on the "cycle endess." The lively rhythm or movement of the middle section with its suggestion of beauty and life contrasts with the dull doggedness in the rest of the poem.

    Tom Mullins
    The Examiner

    ReplyDelete

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