The Ploughman…

Why do you always shout at me
in the tongue of wild horses.
I request a shelter safe, from
your constant, herding storm.
Night fall ā€“ ceasefire, scrap
of paper – sorry – in your hand.
No translation needed to make
me understand – yet you keep on
pounding worn old tracks.

Meadows and mountains
lie beneath the same blue sky.
You whip me cold from the showers
lashing down from high
then spoil, all tranquil beauty
from the tears, you have me cry.
Recompense, you offer not an
empty vase – leaving me wary
of close breathe, between
the sea and shore.
Wash clean, not my thoughts, in sentiment
like so, many times before.
Barren empty, now stands the ravaged field
for the ploughman’s been and gone, though
I never heard his call…

Poppy November 2013 ~xx~

One thought on “The Ploughman…

  1. This is very powerful. I am just now, at almost sixty, beginning to understand the possible reasons for what I call the wrong behavior at the wrong time. We men are perfect at that. The sad thing about relationships is that we, men and women, are reacting not necessarily to the moment at hand, but to the pain of past moments.


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