There is little odour
save for the natural
pungency,
of the earth re-breathing,
warming,
flexing strength for the
coming season.
A man touches soil in
a special way,
like his own child,
raised, nurtured
not bought or borrowed
but that of his own
creation,
nurtured for an age.
Crumbled between his
fingers
it flakes confidently,
ready,
so much has been
transformed,
growth, death,
metamorphosis
a new and vibrant
rebirth.
This is not a young
man’s toil
when time is fleeting,
challenged and confused,
no, it is for a gentle
generation
that closes upon its
own
renewal
© Graham Sherwood
10/2017
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