He’s choppin’ at the strings
With intelligent-blues hands
Swappin’ up words ’bout
Love, the Devil and autumn
But beneath all the fury –
Raised voice, clenched fist;
Beyond the witch-gypsy mask
He still picks vegetables for
The local church harvest.
Work-a-day sun high burnin’
Growin’ dull, respectful red and cider-cold;
Dawn’s melody slowly turnin’
Becoming familiar, restful, old.
Harvest hopes answered
Ripening to warm-honey gold:
Friends will always know each other –
If their stories be honestly told –
That distance and language matter not
When time and hearts be weighed and sold.
- Ironbridge (scotlandtodalaman.wordpress.com)
- Coalport China Museum, Shropshire (comestepbackintime.wordpress.com)
- Busy as an Archaeological Bee (ironbridgecommunityarchaeology.wordpress.com)