My father worked with a horse-plough, br His shoulders globed like a full sail strung br Between the shafts and the furrow. br The horse strained at his clicking tongue. br br An expert. He would set the wing br And fit the bright steel-pointed sock. br The sod rolled over without breaking. br At the headrig, with a single pluck br br Of reins, the sweating team turned round br And back into the land. His eye br Narrowed and angled at the ground, br Mapping the furrow exactly. br br I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake, br Fell sometimes on the polished sod; br Sometimes he rode me on his back br Dipping and rising to his plod. br br I wanted to grow up and plough, br To close one eye, stiffen my arm. br All I ever did was follow br In his broad shadow round the farm. br br I was a nuisance, tripping, falling, br Yapping always. But today br It is my father who keeps stumbling br Behind me, and will not go away.