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Toil.

I have rewritten 'End of Work' to give the syllable count an even feel in the poem and called it 'Toil'

Toil.

Look to heaven; water drop hits my hand;
Stare straight up, now falls a seed in my eye.
I take it and plant it onto the land.

My feet clomp through, on clotted earth we stand,
We head for the field boundary, then sigh.
Look to heaven; water drop hits my hand.

Storm prowls across with an urgent demand,
Fear presents itself, as I stand firm by:
I take it and plant it onto the land.

Dark forces, more than we can understand,
Conjure up imagery from way up high:
Look to heaven; water drop hits my hand.

'Animal Farm', is not a fairyland!
The 'Spiders from Mars' are now, not a lie!
I take it and plant it onto the land.

Our grief sucked away, leaves nothing but sand,
Return to the soil, then on till we die,
Look to heaven; water drop hits my hand,
I take it and plant it onto the land.

©Chris Matthews. (A Villanelle) 03/04/2014

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