He grew strong on the farm.
Was handy shovelling on the right side
or the left.
‘Worth a bonus, that,’ old Fred said,
as they emptied the pigsty,
‘if we were navies.’
Best of all he liked tractor work,
sitting in the cab with a fag
and the radio.
His world was the turning of turf,
a shiny plough-share slicing a neat row
from hedge to ditch.
Years disappeared that way.