River waters run through their veins

With French Oak for backbones

And temperaments carved from the rock

They are not separate from the land

It is them and they are it

 

With the crow of the day they rise

To be greeted by a mellow sun

They toil the earth 

Before being forced to disappear

Into the shade of the beech tree

 

Here they gather together

To feast on the fruits of their labour

Worn hands tear into slabs of golden crusts

And thirsty throats gorge on warm wine

Replete and fatigued 

Eyes close like old shutters

To cast out the light

 

A cacophony of nature’s choir;

 

With an orchestra of crickets

And harmonies of birdsong

River percussion

Lulls them to doze

Tree bark faces 

Are Hidden under battered hats

The occasional lazy wave

To see off a wasp or a bee

Is the only sign of life for a time. 

 

I believe that they

Are blessed

By the divine. 

C.K.23.