Nine men,
one horse,
two huge barrels
of grapes,
one large wagon
stuck in ruts
in the field.
One pulls the horse's reins,
others push
the hugh wagon,
cursing and swearing,
sweating.
The horse pulls,
head raised,
eyes flashing
against the sun,
but the wagon's stuck.
They heave it forward,
but it rolls back
in the rut.
Come on,
one shouts
in Italian,
the others push
and shove,
shoulders to the wood,
hoping the barrels
will stay put.
Mario pulls the reins
with both hands,
he stares
at the horse's dark eyes,
the heaving power
of its muscles,
then it moves
out of the rut
and onwards,
and the men cheer,
voices carrying
over the field
like warriors
of some ancient battle won,
and above them
the puffed up clouds
and hot sun.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 2:56 AM UTC
Nine men,
one horse,
two huge barrels
of grapes,
one large wagon
stuck in ruts
in the field.
One pulls the horse's reins,
others push
the hugh wagon,
cursing and swearing,
sweating.
The horse pulls,
head raised,
eyes flashing
against the sun,
but the wagon's stuck.
They heave it forward,
but it rolls back
in the rut.
Come on,
one shouts
in Italian,
the others push
and shove,
shoulders to the wood,
hoping the barrels
will stay put.
Mario pulls the reins
with both hands,
he stares
at the horse's dark eyes,
the heaving power
of its muscles,
then it moves
out of the rut
and onwards,
and the men cheer,
voices carrying
over the field
like warriors
of some ancient battle won,
and above them
the puffed up clouds
and hot sun.
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