Gardeners

his fingers dig at the earth
lift up the sod
spade turns the soil
one blade at a time

bent backed
hunch shouldered
he who was my father
lives in this picture still

he writes pages in my book
and turns in memory
to smile and offer me
his soil-stained hand

your father
I never knew
but I often gaze at his picture
on the sideboard in the hall

I can see them together
the two men
who labour in the garden
to clear a path for us.

E-mail: kingconerman@aol.com


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