The Harrows
Our harrows to a triangle would fold,
And so they'd stay until there was the need
To work the ground and harrow in the seed;
But now as warmer days replaced the cold;
As winter's icy grip released its hold,
The time had come to plant the fields that we'd
Ploughed well and deep to grow our summer feed,
As westward billowed clouds, and thunder rolled.
The harrows hitched - but then a shrill protest;
For there upon them woven neat and round
A wagtail and her mate had built their nest
And from it softly came a plaintive sound
As bravely parents chided on the wing;
And so we borrowed harrows all that spring.
Sonnet #9
© Dennis N. O'Brien,2012
poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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