A Letter To My Son

It began with dad,
And continued to I the son.
The task he did,
Is the work I took,
But a little bit more.

I rouse at dawn,
And carry my inherited tools,
Ready to face the red earth,
And begin the excavation I do,
To bring bellytimber to my home.

The sun descends on my back,
And kiss it with a burn,
Careful not to scorch the tiring spine,
And break the curving bone.
It's a bent back to say.

The rain waves as it dies,
Signalling the departure for real,
Before I'm done with my earth.
The drought knocks and smiles,
Ready to feast on us all.

I told my son to forget the earth,
Because the rain is old and dying,
But the drought is born and young,
To halt the excavation I do,
And chase the victuals we own.

I asked him too,
To lift the pen like them,
And acquire the tool on his head,
That brings the pence at ease,
And save his back from the menace sun.