Pottering In Identity

He strolls
Among his trees,
Pushing the barrow
Before him:
Work neither heavy
Nor light
But on the balance
Of his good shoulders
And measured
Equal to the pace
Of an afternoon
With wind
Constant in the pines
And sunshine
Inching the hours,
Shadows dialling
The length of the day.
There is deep satisfaction
In knowing his land:
The microclimate at the far end
Where a puddle makes a winter stream.
The row of oak
Marking the boundary
Is no less his own,
Nor the gentle slope
Not other
Than his home.
There is something primal
In his ownership,
A regal spirit
Felt deep in his guts
And through the soles
Of his feet,
An energy felt
As though the ground
Itself could speak
And claim
The man,
Just as the man
Claims the land
As his identity.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Holiday

Just saying the word
Is enough to quell
Its worrisome opposite.

You appear
To have swelled in breath
And buoyancy

Around the chest.
And more,
Your face is full

And your eyes
Are lit,
And your smile

Has spread
So a yellow sunrise
Wells

And the summer
Crests,
And you

Absorb
As much
As you reflect.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

For Mima