Farm Worker


Spring rain, slanting across the fields,

follows him through the door.

Sack over his head.

He stamps on the flagged floor,

Hoping for a welcome.

No sound in the house but the tap dripping.

Feet bruised and aching in the hard farm boots.

He sits, staring at the cluttered kitchen.

Wanting a meal, a word,

A sign of recognition.

He doesn’t know it yet,

But the dog has eaten his dinner.