Poetry

Right through that summer the boy would wander
through the hillocks,
finding wild flowers, wild fruits and then left
burning hot rocks
and then returned to the large farmyard,
heard crowing cocks,
sneaked to the large shed on the heat of day,
while on business the farmer was away.

He would smell some diesoline coming from
the tank outside,
the oil and grease of the three big tractors
while he would hide;
ploughshares, the harrow, spades and picks
would be each side;
in his mind the farmer’s harsh words had been:
“boys have to outside play, are not to be seen.”

[Reference: “Eleven” by Archibald MacLeish.]