’Twas done a rather quietly as the sun appeared politely,
she a risin’ e’er so brightly o’er the dawnin’ of the morn.
An’ he a tad unsightly an’ not feelin’ he too rightly,
he a wound up rather tightly, a dishevelled an’ forlorn.
’Twas early his arisin’, somewhat grumpy, criticisin’,
an’ the mornin’ organisin’ with the coffee on the brew.
The aroma energisin’ an’ he slowly realisin’
from his slumbered hypnotisin’ an’ another day anew.
’Midst calm an’ confrontation’, ’mongst himself, he found debatin’,
why the hell he hesitatin’ when there’s toilin’ to be done.
Though his chores he’d not forsaken, ’twas his hunger delegatin’,
sought the mornin’s occupation an’ his breakfast he begun.
At the table sat a dinin’, the clock ticked on remindin’,
as if time with him confidin’, that he should be makin’ hay.
For the morn, her light providin’, the sun a scrutinisin’,
as to why he agonisin’ o’er the labours of the day.
To arms, for fair the weather for the morrow maybe never,
when he got it all together then he took his scythe to hand.
Held firm in his endeavour as he mowed with skill an’ fervour
through the swayin’ wheat to sever an’ to toil his swath of land.
The early mornin’ throstle soared vociferous, colossal!
When she sang, ‘The Lone Apostle’, where she perched a high an oak.
The world in all, her hostel, of the ether’s Pentecostal,
in the spirit of the gospel with the dawnin’ she awoke.
Mowed he into the rougher an’ the rough into the tougher,
into age he had to suffer as he toiled into his pain.
Not a protest did he utter, of his aches, whine or mutter,
in the songstress sought his succour in the airs of her domain.
In the twilight of the croonin’, the day into its prunin’,
clipped the light into assumin’ a more darklin’ shade of eve.
The night a yonder loomin’ and the sky o’erhead a gloomin’
as it should be in presumin’ that the day would take its leave.
His scythe slung o’er his shoulder, he a worn out, he the older,
though embattled yet to soldier, made his weary way back home.
His welcome, dark an’ sober for ’tis cold a house without her,
of a love, his once beholder ’till in death was overthrown.
’Twas done though not politely as the clouds appeared unsightly
an’ a closin’ in e’er tightly ’fore the comin’ of the storm.
In his slumber palin’ quietly, not a move, e’en a slightly,
gone to meet the, ‘One Almighty’, sang the throstle on the morn.