The Labourer

All I see, is a weary man, a tired man.
A man who worked every hour God sent since he could walk.
He is walking… shuffling, slowly through the yard,
His clothes singed and torn,
His eyelids hanging heavy, desperate to drop closed,
His jaw hangs down limp,
His arms, hulking sacks of tired muscle.
He needs rest.

His right arm trails back, clutching lightly, a rusty shovel,
As it drags across the soil.
His left arm holds steady an empty wooden casket, balanced precariously on his shoulder.
A lone pallbearer.

He sets down the coffin on the ground,
And sets the shovel head into the soft soil,
He is digging the grave.

This man is no stranger to labour,
Pickaxe, shovel, hammer and chisel,
Skills that his father taught him, and his father before.
He has worked hard to earn his bread,
He has fought for his country,
And while the rich drank wine by the fire,
He was the one hacking the coal out of the ground,
And now this day has come to an end,
His ever beating heart has come to a stop.

For days he lay in the mine,
In the screaming blackness,
The blast left them charred and broken.
Face down among his colleagues,
The town council would do nothing,
No living man in town was fit for this job,
No one alive.

The grave was deep,
And he lowers the casket into the hole,
Soon, he will climb inside,
And finally, he will have his rest.