Weeds

’Till labour’s end
he clawed at that
scratched swathe
of furrowed hopes,
his daily bread,
now overgrown
in what he did do
battle:
the weeds.
The honed sickle,
now blunt
where he dropped it,
in blood-bladed rust
on that
accursed plot.

Buried where he fell,
his grave,
since lost.
Where once
scarred in wood:
'Rest in Peace',
weathered worn

to hail and wind.
His bones,
still there,
somewhere,
somewhere
beneath
the weeds.