Standing in the field,
A farmer through and through,
Standing
in old gumboots,
Bought by this grandson,
From first wages
paid
So many moons ago.
The old black face wrinkled
By
the rain, wind and sun,
Wrinkled from the daily toil,
Of
making a living
From the dying soil.
There were many memories,
Kept in your old man's head,
Few
of which we know,
For you were a man of very few words.
And
the years continued on,
And took their toll
Until you just
shuffled along.
And yet, you never seemed to get in the way,
Of you
grandchildren doing youth's play,
But a little advise or story,
here and there
That somehow showed us the right way.
And in your twilight years,
You lasted long enough to
see,
Your great grand children,
And I know you felt some
pride
In this loving crowd.
But I will always remember you
Standing and working in the
fields,
Strong and powerful and proud,
Oh, how we will all
miss you
Now that you have died.
Posted: 2007-06-25 22:22:31