***

"He that by the plough would thrive, Himself must either hold or drive."

Italian Proverb.

The title is taken of course from Hardy's
  In Time of ‘The Breaking of Nations’

which I learnt as a schoolboy way back in the day and Uncle would get me to say as we set off across the fields...it was a poem "he could be."

                        I
Only a man harrowing clods
    In a slow silent walk
With an old horse that stumbles and nods
    Half asleep as they stalk.

                       II
Only thin smoke without flame
    From the heaps of couch-grass;
Yet this will go onward the same
    Though Dynasties pass.

                       III
Yonder a maid and her wight
    Come whispering by:
War’s annals will cloud into night
    Ere their story die.


Jennifer's mum...my aunt Peggy took the first colour photographs we had ever seen on a visit back to her home in Cork all the way from mythical Chicago. We were all amazed to see that Uncle Michael's green corduroy trousers were actually GREEN as if we needed to see a photo to tell us what our own eyes could see...but a photo made them more real. I always remember tracing my finger along the green furrows of his corduroy as well as tagging along behind him as he ploughed with Dolly and all his commands which if I copied...Dolly only laughed at...she was only in love with my uncle's voice...as I was...he was a great teller of tales and could make up worlds of his own all on his own to my great surprise and delight.

I still follow in his furrows as the tilled land goes on forever as does this one stolen moment. I remember how hard it was to lift a leg with the amount of earth stuck to it making it almost impossible to make the next footstep.

I tried to copy everything about him...his gait...his tone of voice...his tongue stuck firmly in his cheek...his lovely laugh. His mind. His wonderful wonderful mind....that...made a poet of me.

A poem is itself.