On The Farm With My Ancestors

I notice a motion, The flick of a plough horse’s ears In the hazy half-light of the stables The stalls smell of cat piss and dung The air is a soup of flies I notice my great-great grandfather Striding over the yard Rubbing a particle of grit From the edge of his weary eye All day he has toiled in the fields A slave to labour and duty ‘What’s your business here? ’ He asks suspiciously He stands like a stern verb His bent old back, a question mark Not wishing to perplex him any further I melt back into a world he would abhor Part of me regrets my urban life Turns back, like Ruth, wishing to help the gleaners It’s a poor creature who spurns The place of his origins