She scattered seeds
as they peck peck pecked.
Across the broken pot path
to the sunlit uplands.
The grapes had died on the vines.
Withered, dried, crucified.
To a crisp.
No longer the fortress of olden days.
There was work here for everyone.
But only if they could cut the mustard.
As the shadows lengthened
he arched his back.
Hand to brow.
Felt the pain of hard graft.
No one had told them the days were numbered.
thejrpc 