September’s Inheritance
If truth be told
he’d rather be on his farm
knee boots and kilt
a well worn cardigan
staff in hand between the rows
redolent of the season’s last tomatoes
winter vegetables coming on
He’d rather drink in
the rich scent of soil and pasture
blending harmoniously with birdsong
gossiping chickens
the occasional commentary of
a cow on the hill beyond
He’d rather enjoy purposeful
wanders along the hedges
wakening appetite for the simple dinner
at end of day
and restful evenings with his beloved
as the country night draws in
Yet it is country which calls
the long dreaded moment
of death and duty
for which he was born
and which one day
his son in turn will inherit
Others will tend these gardens and fields
as he travels
ever farther from the seasons’ turning
to be buried
alive and after life by
ceremony, sceptre, and
city stone
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