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