My man: a life of labour
and from that there’s no escape.
Farms golden fields of barley
and grand yellow fields of rape.
Digging ditches, stacking hay,
spreading fodder for the cows.
Beds of veg, the chickens fed
and the slops kept for the sows.
Rolled up sleeves in weathers all,
find him sweating like a pig.
Mending fences, mucking out
and there’s always drills to dig.
His pants bound with cable cord,
and his boots laced up with twine.
The cap he wears all these years
and the scarf he wears are mine.
Easly roused when nowt to do
but beholden on the whole
At times, too, as mad as hell
yet a most forgiving soul.
Rough a cut, as tough as nails
but as honest as a saint
Though far from the church, he is,
a religious man, he ain’t.
Pulpit thumpers thumping fear,
interfering worrywarts.
More important things to do,
tend a pig when out of sorts.
Postmen quake when bearing bills
and them bankers make him swear.
The taxman wates at the gate,
making sure the coast is clear
Curses at the weatherman,
the government should be downed.
Lying through their pearly whites
as they pass the blame around.
Weather-bet these fifty years,
had to slog through flood and drought.
Twixt cuss and grunt he laboured,
how in hell he stuck it out.
Raw and ready, to the hilt,
without more ado belt on.
Complaining gets you nowhere,
takes what bothers as they come.
His skin as tough as leather
and his hair still full and red.
His bright blue eyes though dimming
but that’s better left unsaid.
Will flee in fear and terror
if in romance he is sought.
He’s not that kind of fellow
but will love you as he ought.
Not a great head for numbers,
so, the books are left to me.
Marriage is a balanced sheet,
it’s the seal of harmony.
What I can’t do, he’ll resolve.
twixt we twain we’ll see it through.
If we can’t, well then, we shan’t,
and accept what we can’t do.
Labours with what tools to hand,
takes his failures in his stride.
Wrong or right, no matter what,
to oneself, one must abide.
His gait is kind of awkward,
sort of tilted with a limp.
Though doubt him not, knows his lot
and on that he will not skimp.
Of quick a wit, odd in ways,
and as is without excuse.
What needs be, what matters must
for all else is of no use.
Of cabbage, spuds and bacon
and for that a, “Thank you ma’am.”
For breakfast, always porridge
and for supper cheese and ham.
Loves my homemade soda bread
with a spread of goosegog jam.
He takes it in the evening
with a cuppa from a can.
He rolls his own cigarettes
and can be of foul a mouth.
But holds his tongue when needs to,
when he knows that I’m about.
Has a penchant for the porter
and takes whiskey in his tea.
No matter drunk or sober,
he is still in love with me.
And I, too, in love with him,
I’m as lucky as they come.
Of all the men, I have known,
to compare, in truth, there’s none