Justin Charron
To the Irish farmer/poet of Monaghan, Patrick Kavanagh
Scales of iron furrow into mottled oak,
Cracking handles bound in iron clasps,
Fallow land, consuming
Stoney grey soil unfit for farm,
Seeded well by glacial retreats;
The only fruit you bore
Piled round your perimeter,
Dividing mine from theirs.
No neighbourly hand or gesture
When mending time came
With biting winter winds
That chilled my bones,
And cracked my skin
Like the brittle arms of the feeble plow.
Amber fields give way to bramble thickets,
Before they have a chance to reach the sky,
Thorns straggle green saplings,
Adorning them in Christ-like crowns.
With each season, the land reclaims its beauty,
Healing the pastoral scars.