Grandmother's garden held treasures

Her garden was delightful.
Pansies lined the rose bed
dahlias leaned one side of the fence
and six foot sun flowers
the other. Down
the back was an old tree,
branches dead underneath.
I used to sit in there, in
my imaginary house
where the sun streamed
in and lit the words
on the pages of my books
until they flared to life
transporting me to islands,
caves and castles. I was
a damsel desiring her knight,
a queen captured by a pirate
but most of all, I was somebody
in a world that had forgotten
I was me.

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.