Seven days a week

Dad would sit for hours
on the grey Massey Fergusson
tractor, harrowing the soil
turning sods and re-turning
them until they bent,
crumbled like gold dust.
The land chose when to give
back to him, to repay
him for the year's nurturing
harrow and manure, hoeing
weeds, unchoking plants.
He'd work the ground
until the ground worked him,
gave to him
in a hand to mouth
existence where sometimes
the hand was empty.
He worked as blisters burst,
from sun up to beyond
sun down. In those days
we were richer
than the soil.