The farm-hand


As I was writing words, I had strung together
trying to stack them neatly and make a small story
not a poem I care not about the touchy feely stuff
but I had formed an iron- clad ending when
the electricity took a break.
Not that I complain we live inland and with a bit
when rain makes, things go wrong
but I had this killer ending and wouldn't let the flame
of inspiration die out. 5 hours later it came back, only
when you sit In the dark for hours thoughts fly so much
to remember that the killer line was quite forgotten
As I said, I'm not a poet just a worker on the field of
words doing a bit of sowing, weeding, and plowing  
I'm a farm-hand and not expected to worry too much
about the harvest but nevertheless take pride when
the cabbage is big, and a carrot is long, no exotic fruit
or rare orchids roll a cigarette sit on a stone fence
and sigh over a job was well done