Thursday 16 February 2017

The gone farmer!


No, he did not fall there by chance. 
A farmer knows his fields better than 
The back of his hands. 
Every piece of soil, every blade of grass
Touched, caressed and felt. 
Every crack, hole, stone examined 
By the mature, dry eyes. 
Every corner, trod upon, 
By worn and often tired feet. 

He could not have killed himself
Not like this, in his own field 
Inside a hole, barely large to hold him
He would have been suffocated,
He disliked closed spaces, you see 
Used to sleeping and chatting in the open 
Under the roof of sky. 

He could have been killed though
And dumped there 
In this hole
There is no blood visible  
But the colour is hard to miss 
There are no visible marks 
But the grip of hands one can feel, 
Who? you ask? 
All. 

He might have been working,  
Digging a hole,
In hope of water, 
Or god knows what 
Spurned by all. 
But who else did he have 
Where else could he go,
He might have simply perished 
Exhausted and thirsty. 
In the heat 
That has claimed 

Even the last drop of water.