In the watery light of a crimson dawn,
Breathing fog over the yonder valley,
His silhouette, a slightly broken posture,
With a gallon of milk in one hand and,
The other leaning on a crocked cane.
Slow but steady, coming from the kraal,
Old age crept up on a resourceful man,
Sleepwalking perhaps, from lack of rest,
Or a drained mind in a breathing body,
Could be anything but a broken spirit.
The old man was the first up this morn,
And woke all the boys to start the day.
Already, he’s walked the whole field twice,
Up and down, and checked on the animals,
That they’re safe from nocturnal visits.
Work is all the old man has ever known,
From cradle to fourscore in scorching heat,
Weighed him down, turned his complexion,
So dark it swallowed sunlight in gulps,
Now his face looks like his favorite pants.
The scuttlebutt, from the grapevine today,
Says it is going to rain again early afternoon,
Hence, the old man is restless, barking orders,
In this short window of dry weather, to finish,
Off the critical fieldwork, on the double!