Sunday, 18 May 2014

The trudge.

The sun smiles,
River running miles.

Drying neath the pump,
And perhaps a garbage dump.

The field once green,
Now tends slowly to wean.

The fruits lying askew,
Farmer walking at first dew.

The shoulders once tough,
Are sore and dreary rough.

The scorch will die down,
A smile shall kill the frown.

Days have changed, 
Nights too faraway ranged.

Pleas aplenty on a brow,
Life flows and you simply row.