Lament Of The Farmhand (1937) - Vic Gamble

forever the coffin passes by,
cheap oak through the penumbra of the pantry,
my only child, cold as slab,
coiled just out of foetus,
cramped in this unworkable well
of unweaned wood……

in the wheat field the pay-man pays the wages
& seed-shot girls giggle,
all as high as kites
on poor money, dreaming
cheap reams of cloth and ribbons.

I know the cider will be stream chilled,
will be roughly poured
& bread as speckled as wild egg, eaten:
gossip will rise, retouched, above the low grass of ground,
but not a pinch of them will see
her coffin passing by….

these endless summer days
leave me cold
as fisherman’s prodded bait….
and where is child, where is laughter
and daughter
in this fashioned seam
of hosanna, of human patching.

Vic Gamble