The Asses Back

The dusk slid easily down, like the britchen

And the hames from the asses back.

My father gave a nuzzle to the weary mare

And slapped her flanks, got a nuzzle back.

Sacks of new spuds, golden wonders,

Traces of lime, streaky chalk,

Stored in the back house, dark and cool,

Newly risen from their mother, withered stalk.

A handful of oats, a draw from the well,

Locked loose in the garden, watered and fed,

Mother had the table cloth out for tea

Smell of linseed, fresh butter, brown bread.

And father reliving the feats of the field

Post mortem slice of a fresh killed pig,

He told the mother how we worked as a team

That next year I would have to dig.

And the old man dug all the drills again

And I filled the hempen sacks,

mother was told of our Trojan work

And the humps upon our backs.

The ass nibbled the shoots of green

And never once complained

Every day of toil was the same to her

Like the garb of the newly ordained.

Herself gave us a slice of currant cake

A dessert of sorts, I suppose,

And the mare fell asleep in the garden

With the dew settling on her nose.

I recall that day of the first of the crop

How my Dad and me were the men

Providing for the hungry horde,

I still think of the ass now and then.