’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.
-
Author:
Tony Grannell (
Online) - Published: May 13th, 2025 07:56
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 20
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy, Doggerel Dave, sorenbarrett, Poetic Licence, Tristan Robert Lange, jarcher54
Online)
Comments8
Excellent write
Thank you very much, Tony, delighted you enjoyed this one.
all the best,
Tony.
You're welcome
The rhythms of a hard day, the underlying loss all woven into reward for returnin’ to this site. The rhyming’, the texture which binds the picture together was something I luxuriated in, Tony.
Hello Dave,
Lovely to hear from you and your lovely response is very much appreciated. Most kind of you indeed.
All is well with you, I trust,
Tony.
This had the flavor of Thomas Hardy and The Return of the Native. I have worked the farm although not with a scythe, have one though. I loved the symbolism in this one with the scythe and death. The rhyme scheme is still one of my favorites and the imagery was right on spot. The story was engaging and the metaphor perfect. Have to say again I love your poems
Thomas Hardy, one of the few authors who could write great novels and great poetry, a most admirable achievement. Your response is lovely, thank you ever so much.
All is well with you, I hope,
Fond regards,
Tony.
Wow this is a master piece.So much to unpack.It bounces along like a Joni Mitchell song.Its just so cleverly constructed. It summarises the human condition of struggle and achievement and finally death,Amazing work here
Hello David,
What a wonderful response, warms this old heart of mine. Thank you so very much, kind of you indeed.
You are in fine fettle, I trust,
Tony.
Well done, Tony. I cannot tell you how much I enjoy reading your work. Hope all is well my friend! 🌹👏
Hello Tristan,
All is well, in fine fettle, the truth be known. I am delighted you enjoy my poetry, inspires me along greatly. I appreciate that, I surely do.
You are keeping well, I hope,
Tony.
Glad to hear! You are most welcome! I am well, indeed, my friend. Thanks.
What a story this is. Just wonderfully phrased and engrossing. Well done.
Hello Dan,
Lovely to hear from you and thank you ever so much for reading and commenting on my poem, kind of you indeed.
All the very best,
Tony.
the endless toil despite old age creeping in is so well described.. the end seems to blend so well with the whole scene - it's a powerful message conveyed
Great to hear from you, Nafisa,
your very fine response is very much appreciated, so kind of you to do so - warms the heart of this old bard.
Kind regards,
Tony.
you are always welcome - glad it made you happy..
keep them coming - and enjoy the weekend
from another Seenager [seventy plus lady - at heart a teen]
I don't know how you do this... you are a treasure, maybe even a ghost! Pretty sure no one alive today writes like this!
Hello jarcher,
A ghost? No. Of flesh and blood, a receding hairline, fading eyesight and creaking joints. Thank you ever so much for dropping by and your lovely words are most appreciated.
You are keeping well, I trust,
Tony.
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