My father worked the land with
Both horse and tractor plough.
That family way of life is past,
We are all city dwellers now.
My father and mother dead
My brother followed them on
I’m the last of that generation
And my country links are gone.
In the churchyard family graves,
Their once turfed burial mound
Unmarked by stone, are now sunk
To be level with the ground.
I try to paint my for grandchildren
Pictures of working days on the land,
Of much less complicated times:
And I know they try to understand
But i am just grandad reminiscing
When I tell of past country ways.
They try listen patiently, but
We are all connected these days.
After a while their patience goes.
They feel the call to be on line
To worlds more exciting than
That long passed one of mine.
So I dream of Fordson tractors
And the tall powerful Shire horse
And they dream of things
From their more modern source.
I wish them long and rich life
Happy and with good health,
Sad they’ll not experience my world
Once rich in everything but wealth.
