Mixing Things Up
We would stand there waiting, hoping,
our grip on a wooden handle, ‘T’ shaped,
with the other hand on the mid life,
ready to lift something weighty
off the mind, not that we knew it back
then. A mix of sand, water, cement.
Tumbling along, moaning, groaning, as
you tilted the shovel plate, hearing the
sloppy sigh of release from the turn of things,
Ticking by with every mouth load, kneed
the mix. Then wait for the chance to
bond, build from what it gave you.
Before a shoulder lift and fill,
grip the handle, raise the hope along
with every bump of the one tyre wheelbarrow
The sun has taken enough light
for the streetlights to pop open.
There is commotion in the field
two men try to gather sheep
like catching marbles on a hill.
One of them does star jumps
but only with his hands. The other
whacks his leg with a flat cap
like he has a hiccup in the muscle
and he wants it to go away.
The sheep scatter, tumble along.
They are evading the metal
trailer that waits like a suitcase
on the last day of a holiday.
I watch the streetlights dink
while the farmer and son
keep the moon at bay
and sheep break like skittles
unsure of the meaning of flock.
Gareth is an aspiring writer who hopes one day to achieve something special with the pen. He has been published in The Reader, Limestone, Magma and Dreamcatcher plus others.