LANDSMAN

Should the old farmer
offer you a frozen hand,

sparse words and silence,
look into his threadbare face

follow the ploughed neck
that sprouts stubble

from an overlarge collar
to where gravity curls

the mouth edge down;
his breath spat

through wind blown gaps
in a barn of misshapen bales;

loose hairs grow like grey weeds
below the bent nose ridge,

scarred sunset cheeks
drop into iced hollows.

Seasons have furrowed
a forehead of thin soil;

the briefest blue veined stream
splits his hill skull,

frail wisps of hoar frost
cling to granite's crag.

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