THE PLOUGHMAN

The Ploughman leads plough horses
Which breath out fire and brimstone,
Toxic fumes, and noxious gases
Creatures from the great unknown.

Following his great Clydesdales
Three-metres or more in height,
The Ploughman ploughs up graves
For those who will die this night.

Ploughing up fields and streets alike
He works on through the darkness,
Following his evil steeds until dawn
When finally the Ploughman can rest.

Some nights he plough a single grave
Other nights a dozen or even more,
Or hundreds in the 21st century
As pestilence is sweeping our shores.

Then he leaves us for other lands
Where they're fighting an endless war,
And he keeps on ploughing every night
Digging graves by a thousand score.

In times of peace and health
He is barely needed most nights,
But now health and peace are rare
He works from dusk until daylight.

Villages talk of hearing hoofbeats
In the fields soon after darkfall,
As he's working at a furious pace
He's plough to answer death's call.

THE END
© Copyright 2021 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia