ramblings and things

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My garden spade is old,

Useful life almost at an end

But when i take it out to dig

It's like being with an old friend.

It may not be beautiful

Nor Sheffield steel made

But it belonged to my dad

This old garden spade.

As we turn the soil together 

The years slip away

To shared experiences on

Long ago Summer's days.

In that  that small period

So very soon gone

When families are close

Before life moves us on.

From litte children

Trusting and small

To gangling adolescents

Who know they know it all.

I wish I'd listened more

To his wise old country truth

Instead of reacting with

The arrogance of youth

But now, so much older,

As I work my bit of soil and green

My hands hold that old spade

Where his hands would have been.

And I feel a sort of contact,

A sort of emotional release,

For a while that small child again

Trusting and at peace.

That's why my tools are old

To be kept past their useful end

To take them to the tip would be

Like losing dear old friends.





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Garden Spade