The plough

Grand was the furrow it lay
carefully carved by rustic's chariot
behind it glistened come what may
the path ahead more uncertain,
hazy dreams subdued by soil
euphony eclipsed by a jennet's grunt
whilst poems wilt by reality's sun
the poet is bruised by verse so blunt,
for what are pearls in a truffle pile?
subject to sows of salacious snout
on dearest dunghills a cockerill climb
to herald benign amongst the doubt,
hunger pains dictating mood
resent of rhyme, rhythm, reason
maternal myopia bestows its brood
horizons dimmed in poverty's realm,
as meadows dance in summer's charm
each season oblivious to mortal form
peasant needs procure the harm
to hidden worlds within confusion,
so the plough with stealth it move
brute beasts all docile in its wake
yet the dreamer seeks to prove
its creed such hope it cultivate.