My old farm hat wears
its scars on sleeve.
Mended rough and ready
for all to see its heroic deeds,
in tussles with cows, bulls and trees.
Its soaked soft in sweat, mellowed with dust.
Patched with bits of other
old hats that have fallen apart, well passed it.
Sewn with old leather throngs
through holes punched with a knife.
My old hat is as much a part of me
as my skin, burnt leathery brown,
and scarred with age.